The Hanged Man's Noose Page 6

  10

  Emily was impressed with the sheer volume of knowledge Arabella possessed, but even more, she was impressed with the woman’s passion for the objects in her shop, from the furniture, printed material and clocks, to a variety of goods which fell under the umbrella of “smalls,” a catch-all phrase which referred to any small utilitarian or decorative item, excluding art. Emily had been admiring a red and white cameo glass perfume bottle with a sterling silver stopper, tagged as “English, Thomas Webb and Sons, circa 1900,” when the doorbell rang.

  “Not sure who that could be,” Arabella said, making her way to the door.

  It turned out to be Johnny Porter carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers: a mix of white carnations, daylilies, sunflowers, and assorted greenery. A tiny silver helium balloon with a “Congratulations!” message floated in the center.

  “For your grand opening, Arabella,” Johnny said, giving a little bow and handing her the bouquet. “Courtesy of the Main Street Merchants’ Association.” He looked around the shop. “The place looks great.”

  “Thanks, Johnny. I couldn’t have done it without your support.”

  “Utter nonsense. It’s all you.” He turned to Emily. “It’s nice to see you again, and I’m glad to say, under much more pleasant circumstances.”

  Emily felt her cheeks grow warm and caught Arabella’s glance, a cross between amusement and bemusement.

  “It’s good to see you again, Johnny. I was going to call you later today. Have you heard any more from Gloria? I called the restaurant yesterday, but all I got was a message saying it’s closed until Monday.”

  “Gloria’s fine, though she’s more than a little worried about how this might affect her business. Tiffany has been making some noises, but thankfully the police aren’t taking her accusations seriously. Cried wolf too many times, is my guess.”

  “I was thinking of calling on Tiffany,” Emily said, “but it sounds as if she wouldn’t be the most reliable source.”

  “What’s all this about Gloria and Tiffany and the police?” Arabella asked. “I usually stop at the Sunrise on my way here, but I’ve missed the last couple of days because I’ve been so busy getting everything ready. It’s like I’ve been living in a vacuum. Is everyone all right?”

  “Not exactly,” Emily said, and filled Arabella in on the happenings at the diner. Johnny added what he knew. The coroner had ruled the cause of death as anaphylactic shock, and based on the stomach contents, peanuts appeared to be the culprit. The police interviewed both Gloria and February, but were treating Carter’s death as an unfortunate accident.

  “Apparently Carter had pancakes that morning,” Johnny said. “Since Gloria only uses canola oil, something February and previous waitresses confirmed, they suspect the pancake mix had traces of peanuts.”

  “Poor Gloria,” Arabella said. “Carter could be a first-class pill, but he and Gloria went way back, and they owned that apartment building together.”

  “I also feel badly for the waitress, February,” Emily said. “From what I can gather, she only recently moved into town. What a situation to find herself in.”

  “I wondered how she wound up in Lount’s Landing,” Arabella said. “It’s kind of a sleepy place for someone her age, and she didn’t appear to have any friends or family here. Do you know, Johnny?”

  “Gloria thinks February was trying to escape something in the city, like a bad relationship.”

  Emily thought back to her brief conversation with February at the restaurant. “She told me she wanted to be a writer. She might have thought a small town would be a good place to hunker down and write. She also said she had plenty of stories to tell, something about hearing and seeing things as a waitress.”

  “Did she, now?” Johnny smiled. “I enjoy a good story. Perhaps one of these days we’ll get a chance to hear them.”

  11

  Emily left the Glass Dolphin a few minutes later, but instead of going straight home she headed north on Main Street towards Frankie’s Fish and Chips. According to Johnny, who’d heard it from Gloria, February Fassbender lived in an apartment above the restaurant. And the reality was, Emily couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  She’d meant what she said to Johnny and Arabella. She felt badly for the waitress. There was bound to be an investigation, not to mention a liberal dose of small town gossip and unsubstantiated innuendo. A newcomer to town would be easy prey for both. Maybe it wasn’t her place to do so, and maybe she wouldn’t want company, but Emily felt compelled to pay the girl a visit, let her know that she had a friend if she wanted one. Besides, that comment about seeing and hearing things as a waitress, about having stories to tell, kept spinning around in her head. Who knows what February might have overheard about Garrett Stonehaven and his plan? People ignored waitresses, the same way they ignored white panel vans and workers in nondescript uniforms. They became invisible.

  Frankie’s Fish and Chips was located at 467 Main Street North. Unit 1B was stenciled on a scarred wooden door adjacent to the restaurant’s entrance. She knocked, and finding no answer, tentatively tried the handle. To her surprise it opened into a tiny vestibule with a mailbox, old-fashioned intercom system, and another door, this one glass. Emily pressed a small black button on the intercom. After a few moments, a tinny voice answered.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hi February, it’s Emily Garland.”

  “The woman from the newspaper?”

  “One and the same.”

  A buzzer sounded and the glass door unlatched. Emily pushed the door open and made her way up a narrow flight of rickety stairs. February stood at the top, waif-like, a long Irish cable-knit sweater draped around her slender body and falling to her knees, her face so pale it was almost translucent in the dark hallway.

  “C’mon in.”

  Even with the window wide open the place still reeked of deep fried fish and cooking oil. Emily wrinkled her nose and was embarrassed by the action.

  “You almost get used to it after a while,” February said. “The smell.”

  Emily nodded, stayed standing, and thought about her first apartment in the city, a shoebox backing onto the railway tracks, commuter trains running from before dawn to well past dusk. You could get used to anything, if money was tight and the rent was cheap enough. “I used to rent a place, you’d have thought the train was coming straight into my living room. I learned to adapt. Turned the TV on louder. Wore noise-blocking headphones when I wanted to read.”

  “Then you get it, though I’ll admit my first few days here were nothing short of hell. Greasy bacon and eggs from the Sunrise, the stench of halibut and cod from Frankie’s. It felt like every orifice of my body had been invaded, my pores, my clothes, my hair.” February chuckled, a dry, dusty sound too big for her body. “I even tried washing with lemons, saw that on an episode of CSI when Sara Sidle tried to wash away the smell of death and decomp and dying. Do you watch CSI?”

  Emily had to admit she did not.

  “Doesn’t matter,” February said. “All that matters is the rent is dirt cheap, and the place is dead quiet. This time of night you could shoot a cannon along Main Street and no one would notice. That’s comforting to someone in my line of work.”

  Emily frowned. “Your line of work? As a waitress?”

  This time it was February’s turn to frown.

  “I believe I might have misjudged you, Emily Garland.” February walked over to the door. “You should probably leave now. I’m expecting company later tonight and it wouldn’t do for you to be here when they came.”

  “Maybe tomorrow—”

  “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  The door slammed before Emily made it halfway down the narrow stairway.

  12

  No sooner had Arabella said goodbye to Emily than the doorbell rang again. Arabella looked out the window and saw her ex-husband, Levon, standing there, hands in his pockets.

  “I’d like to buy those candlesticks in the window,”
Levon said, sauntering into the shop. With the exception of a pair of work boots, he was completely dressed in denim, right down to a sheepskin-lined blue jean jacket and faded Levis.

  Some men looked good in suits and ties. Levon, with his shaggy brown hair, indigo eyes, and lopsided smile, simply rocked in denim. Arabella resisted the urge to push a strand of hair away from his eyes.

  “The candlesticks aren’t for sale,” she said instead, secretly pleased he’d made the comment. The Glass Dolphin had been named after her first antique find: a pair of sapphire blue Boston & Sandwich pressed glass candlesticks, circa 1840. She loved the way the dolphin’s head rested on a slab glass base, the mermaid-like tail curling seductively upward to form a c-shaped scroll.

  Levon had been with her at the estate sale. He’d walked right by the candlesticks, had saved the moment of discovery for her, knowing how special they were. She remembered the way they’d celebrated later that evening, starting with a bottle of cheap champagne and a large double cheese pizza.

  “Not for sale?” Levon said, but he was smiling his lopsided smile. “Kind of hard to make a living if nothing is for sale, Bella baby. I take it you’ll be able to part with one or two of your clocks? Or the John James Audubon print of the mourning doves you were always so crazy about?”

  “The print is technically titled Carolina Turtle Dove, Plate 17 to be exact,” Arabella said, but she couldn’t help but laugh. There was a lot of truth in what Levon said. She had a hard time parting with things. She’d had a hard time parting with Levon, even after they both realized they made better friends than lovers. The truth of it was, Levon made a better friend than husband. She didn’t care who her friends slept with. She did care who her husband slept with. It didn’t matter if they’d hit a rough patch, or that he denied it.

  But back to the present. The man had a point. What if she couldn’t part with any of these things? She’d been a collector for so many years, only selling off what she had to, and always to buy more. What if she was kidding herself? What if the shop looked like a bunch of stuff collected by some neurotic antiques enthusiast?

  “What do you think, Levon? Does the shop look…does it look okay so far?”

  Levon strolled over to the wall of clocks and caressed them, one by one, tracing the grain of oak and mahogany and pine gently with his fingertips, taking time to admire the reverse-painted glass front on the Seth Thomas ogee, the delicate floral pattern on the Ansonia Royal Bonn porcelain shelf clock, the intricate brass pendulum on the Gilbert “Number 12.” After he made his way to the end of the display, he stood and faced the opposite wall, surveying the colorful posters, the watercolors and prints and old maps.

  “Where’d you find the series of canvas-mounted Canadian Pacific Railway posters? And those ocean liner posters from Cunard and White Star?” he asked. “They’re fantastic.”

  “A collector in Niagara Falls. In addition to the posters there’s a fair selection of ephemera from various liners, postcards, menus, that kind of thing. I haven’t decided yet how I’m going to display them. Thought I’d wait until someone inquired about one of the ship posters and then dazzle them with my knowledge and inventory.”

  “Clever marketing. But why is the person selling? This collection must have taken years to assemble.”

  “I think he needed the money to fund his latest passion.”

  “Which was?”

  Arabella suppressed a giggle. “I believe her name was Charisma.”

  Levon burst out laughing. “Charisma, eh? Good on him.”

  “And her,” Arabella said with a chuckle. “I guess you could say Charisma’s ship came in.”

  “So will yours, Arabella. Everything looks absolutely incredible.” Levon eyed her with a hint of sadness. “I think the student may have surpassed the teacher.”

  Arabella’s uncertainty dissipated. It was the best compliment Levon could have possibly paid her.

  13

  Emily arrived at the Glass Dolphin at nine o’clock sharp. She’d promised Arabella that she’d get there early enough to help out with any last minute preparations before the shop opened at eleven. They were in the middle of giving everything one final dust and straighten when the doorbell rang.

  “That will be my friend, Betsy Ehrlich,” Arabella said. “She owns The Hanged Man’s Noose. Not sure if you’ve been there yet?”

  Emily shook her head. She’d run by it a couple of times, but the idea of going into a bar on her own held limited appeal. Besides, she wasn’t much of a drinker.

  “You’ve got to go there, seriously, good food, good atmosphere, phenomenal nineteenth century saloon decor. It’s totally not like one of those pickup joints you find in the city. Betsy’s sister, Rebecca, runs Casual Catering and Bakery. I hired her to put together a few platters of nibblies for the grand opening. Betsy offered to deliver them and check out the shop at the same time.”

  After Arabella made the introductions, and Betsy got a quick run through of the shop, the trio went about setting up the food table. In addition to raw veggies, appetizers, and bite-sized desserts, she’d brought a variety of sparkling waters, and two large urns, one for coffee, and one for hot water. A multi-colored basket was filled with a selection of regular and assorted herbal teas. Another basket held a supply of non-dairy creamers, sugar and sugar substitutes. Emily had to give props to Rebecca Ehrlich. Everything appeared to be covered. There were cups, glasses and paper plates, all sporting the double “C” Casual Catering logo.

  “I have to scoot, the pub opens in an hour,” Betsy said when they’d finished. She gave her friend a quick hug. “I’d wish you luck, but you won’t need it.”

  “Thanks Betsy.”

  “Thank you for giving Rebecca the gig. She could use the business, especially once word gets out about Carter Dixon.”

  “What does Carter’s death have to do with Rebecca?” Emily asked.

  “Rebecca makes all the baked goods for Sunrise, has since it opened. She even makes the pancake mix, three different varieties. Gloria’s a great short order cook but her baking is lethal.” Betsy blushed scarlet. “Sorry, bad choice of words. But Rebecca never made any claim her goods were made in a nut-free facility. And she swears she was super-careful about cross contamination. Poor kid, she’s worked so hard to make a go of the business.”

  “She can keep counting on me,” Arabella said.

  “And me, if I ever host an event for Inside the Landing,” Emily said.

  “Thanks, both of you. Now I totally have to scoot. But before I forget, Arabella, I told Garrett all about your grand opening. He’s keen to see it.” Betsy turned to Emily. “That’s Garrett Stonehaven. He’s a developer from Toronto with big plans for Lount’s Landing. Positively the most amazing man I’ve ever met.”

  Amazing, Emily thought.

  “Really,” Arabella said.

  “Really,” Betsy said, a happy grin on her face. “I can’t wait to hear what Garrett thinks of the Glass Dolphin. It’s absolutely something to die for.”

  Arabella had unlocked the shop promptly at eleven and there’d been a steady stream of traffic from the moment the doors opened until five, when the doors closed. Not a mad rush, exactly, but Emily couldn’t remember a moment when the store didn’t have at least one customer browsing and another noshing on appetizers. Emily had done her best to chat with each and every one of them, taking photographs and getting quotes.

  The day was pleasant if largely uneventful, a few sales made, some promises to come back and visit again, a couple of inquiries on possible consignments. Arabella took it all in stride with an easy grace and quiet confidence, answering questions, pointing out special features, all the while making casual introductions to Emily. She seemed to know everyone, not only by name, but by some sort of anecdote.

  “Caitlyn Meadows. Caitie has the most incredible collection of vintage costume jewelry. I’ve been trying to pry a Sherman aurora borealis bracelet off her for years now.” Introducing a dapper man in his early fi
fties. “Stanford McLelland, owner of McLelland Insurance Brokerage. Stanford’s my ex-boss. He encouraged me to open the Glass Dolphin. Promised me a good deal on insurance rates, too, didn’t you Stan?”

  Emily was grateful for the introductions. With the exception of Johnny Porter, the only people Emily had recognized were Ned Turcotte, the owner of Birdsong, still ruddy-faced and still wearing a red plaid lumber jacket, and Chantal Van Schyndle, the owner of the Serenity Spa and Yoga Studio.

  As unlikely as the matchup seemed, Emily got the distinct impression the two were more than good friends. It was nothing overt, more the way they interacted, Chantal finishing off some of Ned’s sentences, and vice versa. She managed to get a couple of good photos plus a decent quote from Chantal about running a business on Main Street before the two of them wandered off.

  “Chantal Van Schyndle,” Arabella had whispered to her as Ned and Chantal examined a New Brunswick butternut desk. “Everyone calls her Van Swindle behind her back, because of the outrageous prices she charges.” Emily had bitten her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  If Saturday was uneventful, Sunday more than made up for it. Things started smoothly enough. Betsy’s sister, Rebecca Ehrlich, arrived first thing to collect Saturday’s leftovers. She replaced them with freshly prepared platters, topped up the tea and coffee supplies, and added another bundle of napkins.

  Emily was struck by the similarity in the two women. Rebecca was younger by about five years, no hint of crow’s feet, her face not yet broadened by age. But there was no mistaking the two for sisters, at least when it came to appearance. Ironically, the younger sibling was much more “all about business,” pulling out a checklist, and making certain Arabella initialed each item, coming and going, before signing off at the bottom of a sheet marked “Invoice.”