The Hanged Man's Noose Page 8

  “An ex-fiancé. Kevin.”

  “A recent breakup?”

  “Fairly recent,” Emily said. “A couple of months ago.”

  “What happened? Or should I ask?”

  “A personal trainer named Chloe happened. Very platinum blonde, very busty, all fake tan and toned legs.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Kevin. He used to come to my place every Saturday night for dinner. I’d make a gourmet dinner, appetizer, entrée, dessert, a nice bottle of wine. I enjoy trying new recipes.”

  “And one Saturday night he didn’t come over?”

  “He came over, all right, except that Saturday night he brought me a present.”

  “What was it?”

  “A cookbook.”

  “What’s so bad about giving someone who likes to cook a cookbook?”

  “It was called Cooking for One.”

  “Geez, that’s cold,” Arabella said, and shivered.

  “Ya think?” Emily downed the rest of her brandy. Her rental house was a fifteen-minute walk away. Worst-case scenario, she could crawl home. Maybe if she ate something it would help. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything but Poppy’s watermelon bouquet. And that had been hours ago.

  She got up and made her way to the front of the shop, where the selection of appetizers and bite-sized desserts had been set up for customers. She grabbed a couple of picked-over platters and set them on a small table next to the chaise lounge.

  “The raw veggies are down to a few brownish looking mushrooms and some stringy looking celery. But there’s still plenty of stuff here to eat if you don’t mind your carrots in the form of miniature cupcakes with cream cheese icing.”

  “I like your style,” Arabella said, and proceeded to pour them each another shot of cognac. “Now, what’s the story with you and Garrett Stonehaven?”

  16

  Emily headed north on Main Street to her office first thing Monday morning. Her head ached from too much crap food and cognac, and she could have benefitted from another couple of hours of sleep, but she needed to transcribe her rough notes from the grand opening while they were still fresh in her mind. She could always download the photos later.

  Once again her walk took her past Frankie’s Fish and Chips, and she thought about February’s odd behavior a couple of days before. Maybe her landlord could shed some light on it. Johnny’s notes had mentioned that the current owner, a man named Nigel Watters, had purchased the restaurant a few months back, kept the name to save on changing the menus and outdoor signage. “A bit of a gossip,” Johnny had written. If anyone knew anything about February and her mysterious “line of work,” Nigel just might be the man.

  Emily’s stomach roiled at the thought of eating fish and chips, but her curiosity about February overcame her reluctance. She could always just order coffee. In fact, coffee sounded good right about now, the stronger the better.

  The inside of Frankie’s Fish and Chips was long and narrow, with dark, wood-paneled walls punctuated by faux portholes and taxidermy fish reproductions. A center aisle separated a row of booths, the bench seats upholstered in red leatherette, the tabletops covered in red and white checkered plastic. Laminated menus were tucked behind stainless steel napkin holders and bottles of malt and white vinegar. There was a faint odor, as if some fish had gone off. Emily renewed her decision to stick with coffee only.

  In his notes, Johnny had described Nigel Watters as a tall, knobby-looking man, mid-to-late forties, with a receding hairline, large aquiline nose, and pale blue eyes. What he’d missed was the aura of defeat that permeated from the restaurateur’s pores like hot grease on a griddle. Emily slid into a booth and waited as he trundled over to greet her, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped.

  “Welcome to Frankie’s. Let me guess. You’re the new editor of Inside the Landing everyone’s been talking about.”

  So folks had already been talking. That didn’t take long. Emily found herself missing the anonymity of the city. It would have been a lot easier to go undercover in Toronto. She summoned up a warm smile.

  “Emily Garland, editor, at your service. And you must be Nigel Watters. Johnny Porter told me to stop by.” Emily crossed her fingers underneath the table. “He tells me this is the best fish and chips place in town.”

  “The only fish and chips place in town, actually. Not that it’s helped business.” Nigel gave a weary smile and waved his hands around the empty restaurant. “Hopefully you’ll have more success with your acquisition than I have.”

  “Maybe I can help you by doing a write-up on the restaurant.”

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m not usually rude.”

  Emily shrugged. “Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll have coffee, black is fine.”

  “It’s just that I’ve been worried,” Nigel said, making no effort to get the coffee.

  “Worried? About the restaurant?” Being rude to the customers wasn’t going to remedy that any time soon.

  “No, well, yes, that too, but I’m more concerned about February. My tenant. Lives upstairs.”

  Emily perked up. Now this was interesting.

  “I know February. I was in the Sunrise Café when Carter Dixon died.”

  “Feb mentioned a newspaper lady being there.” Nigel shook his head. “I should have made the connection. I really am off my game.”

  “No reason for you to have done so. Why are you worried about February?”

  “She promised to cover for me yesterday afternoon.” Nigel sighed heavily. “I haven’t had a minute off since I bought this money pit. With Gloria’s place temporarily closed, I thought Feb could use the shift. But she never showed up. Not so much as a phone call or a quick pop-by.”

  “I saw her Friday evening. She told me she was expecting company. Maybe she went out of town and it was too late to tell you. When did you make your arrangement with her?”

  “Late Saturday.” Nigel bit his bottom lip. “I’ll admit she seemed a bit off, as though something was weighing on her, but I put it down to the whole Carter Dixon business.”

  So Nigel had seen February after Friday night. Which meant that whoever had visited her hadn’t posed a threat…unless they’d come back. Emily mulled the possibilities over in her head. That whole “her line of work” business continued to bother her. It was possible February had put herself in danger.

  “Maybe you should go check on her. Make sure everything’s okay. I can come with you, if you’d like.”

  If Nigel thought anything was odd about Emily wanting to check on February, he gave no indication. Instead, he seemed relieved.

  “That would be great. Let me put a ‘Back in Ten’ sign on the door on the off chance another customer comes along.”

  The putrid stench of rotting meat permeated the hallway outside of February’s apartment.

  “She must have left something on the counter,” Nigel said, his face taking on a greenish tinge.

  Emily nodded, but she’d watched enough episodes of Law and Order to have her doubts. “Let’s hope that’s all it is.” She shivered as they reached the apartment door. “Damn, it’s freezing up here. I think it’s warmer outside.”

  “February always kept the window open to keep the smell of the fish and chips from the restaurant out, then she’d complain about how cold the apartment was,” Nigel said, knocking. There was no answer. He put his ear against the door and listened. “I’m not hearing anything.” He knocked again.

  “Do you have a key?”

  “I do.”

  “I think you should use it.”

  Nigel’s face went from green to chalk white, but he pulled a key out of his pants pocket and inserted it into the lock, his movements slow and methodical as he swung the door open.

  “Oh. My. God.” Nigel lurched forward, then stopped himself by grabbing onto the door jamb.

&nbs
p; Emily looked over Nigel’s shoulder, then felt her knees buckle and the bile rise up in her throat. What was rotting in the apartment was February Fassbender’s dead body.

  17

  Emily stepped out into the hallway. “We need to call the police,” she said. The police wouldn’t want them contaminating the scene.

  Nigel followed her and leaned against the wall across from the apartment. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “How long do you think she’s been dead?”

  “I don’t know. You said you saw her late Saturday afternoon. So sometime after that.”

  Nigel bent over and held his nose. For a minute Emily worried he was going to vomit. “God, the smell is awful. Overpowering. It’s hard to believe I didn’t notice anything in the restaurant.”

  Emily had noticed a slightly “off” smell, but she wasn’t about to say so now. “The open window probably kept the odor from filtering downstairs.” It might also have kept the body from decomposing more than it had, though admittedly her only knowledge came from what she’d seen on TV. As it was, the parts of February’s face she could see looked all blue and squishy and distorted, like something you might see in a funhouse mirror. Thankfully, the girl’s long blonde hair covered most of it. There had been an empty syringe by her right hand.

  “Did you notice the syringe?” Nigel was getting more agitated by the minute. “I know she was thin, but I never took her for a junkie.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Do you think the police will suspect me of anything?”

  “There’s no reason to think so,” Emily said, although truthfully she had no idea.

  The first police officers arrived about fifteen minutes after Nigel called them. They cordoned off the entrance at Main Street, and asked Emily and Nigel to wait inside the restaurant. Emily wished she didn’t feel quite so hung over. Cognac headaches and finding dead bodies didn’t mix.

  A Detective Sheridan Merryfield interviewed Nigel and Emily, first separately, and then together, and then separately again. Handsome and muscular, with skin the color of Kraft caramels, a thick neck, shaved head, and hands the size of goalie gloves, he reminded Emily a bit of the actor on NCIS Los Angeles, the one who licked his lips a lot when he was hosting or presenting on Awards shows.

  Merryfield walked her through the events leading up to finding the body, from the “incident” at the Sunrise Café, to the finding of the body. He asked the same questions in a dozen different ways. Emily kept her answers brief and to the point. With the exception of telling him about February’s “line of work” statement, she didn’t leave anything out. Mention that “line of work” business and the police would lose interest in finding out the truth. She’d seen firsthand, with her mother. Saw the way the police abandoned ship if they suspected the victim was involved in something illegal. Didn’t matter if the suspicion was in any way accurate.

  “Right now it looks like an overdose,” Merryfield said when it was clear neither she nor Nigel had anything left to add, “but of course we’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report. In the meantime, I’m going to ask you to keep this to yourselves. And Mr. Watters?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to ask that you keep Frankie’s Fish and Chips closed for a few days.”

  Nigel slouched forward in his seat. “Sure, why not? It’s not like I’m doing any better than Frankie.”

  Nigel might have promised the police to keep quiet about February’s overdose, but Merryfield was no sooner out the door when he called Gloria Moroziuk. Restaurant owners had to stick together, he informed Emily. Besides, he’d swear Gloria to secrecy. Gloria could be trusted.

  Emily left before she could be party to his gossip.

  18

  Emily headed back to her office, her mind going over the scene at February’s apartment with every step. Beyond the obvious horror of seeing a young woman dead, something about it bothered her. But what? Maybe if she had something to eat she could think better. Not that she was especially hungry, but it had been several hours since she’d had food—if you could call leftover appetizers food.

  She popped into the Hasty-Tasty Mart a few doors down from her building and grabbed a pre-made salad, trying not to dwell on the preservatives that could be in it to keep it “fresh” for a week. Added a bag of kettle-cooked chips and a bottle of ginger ale. It wasn’t exactly gourmet but it would have to do.

  She wolfed down the salad and chips and chased down a couple more ibuprofen within minutes of reaching her office. Feeling almost human, and refusing to think any more about February until she got some work done, Emily fired up her computer and starting sifting through photos from Arabella’s grand opening. She’d barely made a dent when there was a knock on the door. Who would visit her here?

  It turned out to be Nigel, though what he could possibly want was anyone’s guess.

  “Nigel, what is it?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He shuffled over to the leather sofa and flumped into the seat.

  “What’s up?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to Gloria.”

  “Considering you promised not to tell anyone, probably not. But you did.” Emily studied Nigel through narrowed eyes. “Why the regret? Did Gloria say something that bothered you?”

  “Humph.” Nigel folded his knobby arms in front of him. “It’s what she didn’t say. To be perfectly honest, I was a bit disappointed in her reaction. Gloria sounded more worried than shocked.”

  “That’s understandable. First Carter dies in her restaurant, and now her waitress is found dead. That’s bound to start a few tongues wagging. Not exactly a boon to her business.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Nigel bit his lower lip. “God, that means people will connect Feb’s death with my restaurant. Just what I don’t need.”

  Emily decided to overlook the insensitivity of the comment. Besides, there were questions she wanted the answers to, questions she hadn’t wanted to ask in front of the police.

  “You told Detective Merryfield that February never mentioned any family. Are you sure she never mentioned anyone?”

  “Positive, although I always got the impression February wasn’t planning on staying in town long. She used to tell me this was all temporary, that she had a plan.”

  “A plan? What sort of plan?”

  “One time she let a first name slip. She was talking about how this person was her ticket to the good life.” Nigel licked lips, a quick flicking motion. “I didn’t remember until the detective and his partner had left. I suppose I should call them back, let them know.”

  “That’s probably best.” Emily tried to keep her tone casual. “Out of curiosity, do you remember the name?”

  “I think I do. It was Michelle.”

  Emily made herself a cup of coffee the minute Nigel left. She needed a clear head to process the facts. February had been a waitress in Toronto. She had moved to Lount’s Landing with a get-rich-quick plan, apparently orchestrated by a woman named Michelle.

  It could be the woman wasn’t Michelle Ellis, but the odds were Las Vegas long. February had told Emily that she’d seen and heard things, as a waitress. Had Michelle hired her to find out about Stonehaven’s plan? But why would Michelle trust a druggie? She was considering ways to confront Michelle when the doorbell rang.

  Exasperated by the interruption, Emily flung the door open. Her expression changed from frustration to pleasure when she saw Johnny Porter standing there. He held a glass vase filled with lavender roses and baby’s breath, presumably purchased from Flower Power across the street.

  “Johnny. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to give you a proper welcome in your new office.” He handed her the flowers and grinned. “Actually, I wanted to see you again, and I thought the flowers might be a nice touch. You know, seeing as I delivered a bouquet to Arabella and all.”

  “They’re beautiful, thank y
ou,” Emily said, thinking about what Johnny had told her about men and giving flowers during the Victorian era. She could feel her face flush scarlet and wanted to kick herself for it. What was it about Johnny that turned her into a high school senior?

  “Would you care to come in?”

  “Thanks. I’m here because I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure, what is it?” She set the flowers down on the window ledge.

  “Gloria Moroziuk called me. She told me that you and Nigel Watters found February Fassbender’s body. And that it looks like a drug overdose of some sort.”

  “I’m sorry to say that it’s all true, although Nigel had no business calling Gloria, and I can’t give you any details. The police asked us to keep the information to ourselves until they finished with their investigation.”

  Johnny smiled. “I did mention, in my notes, that Nigel was a gossip.”

  Emily smiled back, though this time it took an effort. “An accurate assessment. But it sounds like Gloria couldn’t wait to call you and share the news. And that you couldn’t wait to come here and ask for more information.”

  “It isn’t like that. It’s just that it doesn’t look good for Gloria, with two dead bodies associated with the Sunrise Café. I’d like to protect her from any unnecessary press, if that’s possible.”

  “I wasn’t about to print it. But it’s a small town. The news is bound to get out, whether I print it or not. As has already been proven.”

  “I suppose I just want to reassure myself that as the editor of Inside the Landing you want to promote business, not hurt it with negative press.”

  “I do,” Emily said, trying to keep her temper in check.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, but revitalizing Main Street is important to me. I have visions of it becoming vibrant again. It used to be, you know, before the mill closed down and folks moved away.”