“No one saw me shoot Marc Larroquette.”
18
Levon rocked back and forth as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Relax, Arabella,” he said, “I didn’t shoot my father, which means that since I wasn’t there at the time he was shot, no one could have seen me do it.”
Arabella expelled a long breath. “You had me worried there for a minute.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I thought you believed in me.”
“I do. It’s just that you lied, and not just to the police. You lied to all of us at the golf course. Me.
Emily. Luke. Hudson. Trent Norland.”
“Trent Norland?”
“The guy from the insurance company.”
“Oh yeah. The guy with the baseball cap and the plaid pants.”
“That’s the one. You lied to all of us.”
Levon stopped rocking and leaned forward. “Oh. My. God. You’re the one who told the police that I met with my father. But how on earth did you find out?”
Arabella drained the rest of her wine and handed the empty glass to Levon. “Not necessarily, but it looks like I’ll be staying overnight after all. Better make up the spare bed and then pour me another glass, please. We’ve got lots to talk about.”
Levon came back to the porch about ten minutes later, and told Arabella that he put a pair of old flannel pajama pants and a tee shirt on the bed for her to sleep in. “They’ll be a bit big on you,” he said, “but the pants have a drawstring and the tee shirt won’t matter.”
They sat down and as if by unspoken agreement, he started by talking about his interview at the Miakoda Falls Police Station with Merryfield and Aaron Beecham. “Merryfield started by telling me that they would be videotaping the interview. Kempenfelt had already told me that was standard operating procedure—to protect both sides, she said—so it didn’t come as a surprise, but it still felt invasive, more like an interrogation, you know?”
Arabella nodded. She didn’t know, but she could imagine.
“Once all that was set up, Merryfield walked us through the five main facts thus far.” Levon lifted his hand and started counting on his fingers. “One. My father walked out on my mom and me twenty- four years ago. Two. The man they found dead on the golf course, Marc Larroquette, was my father and a victim of foul play. Three. I told the police that I hadn’t seen Marc Larroquette for those twenty- four years. Four. Someone had reported seeing me with Marc Larroquette in the park a couple of days before. Five. That we had been arguing.”
“I didn’t tell Aaron that you’d been arguing.”
“But he surmised it, from what you did or didn’t say.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
Levon shook his head. “It’s not your fault. You had to tell the truth. If I’d done that in the first place, I might be in a much better position than I am now. Besides, it’s a small town. It’s hard to hide anything. I should have remembered that. Merryfield said that between Kerri St. Amour’s ‘reporting’ and that blog a half dozen people have come forward to say they saw me in the park that day. I’m assuming they all confirmed your statement. Beecham chimed in and asked what we’d been arguing about. There was a bit of jockeying back and forth between him and Kempenfelt, but she eventually agreed to let me answer the question.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them what happened.”
“What did happen?”
Levon took a long swallow of his second beer and began rocking again. “He—I won’t dignify the man by calling him my father—called me about a week ago. He said he was in the area and needed to see me. I hung up on him.”
“Let me guess. He kept calling.”
“Bingo. I finally agreed to meet with him at the park. I had no idea what he wanted, but I figured if we met in a public place, he wouldn’t try anything funny. We met by the water fountain and he tried to hug me when I got there. I wasn’t having any of it. That man broke my mother in a hundred pieces. What kind of man walks out on his family and never comes back?”
Arabella didn’t have an answer for that. Her own parents had been overprotective clinging vines, strict to the point of strangulation. In her mind, one type of parent wasn’t any better than the other. “Why did he come back?”
“I told you before that he wanted to make amends for leaving, for my mom’s suicide, but it went deeper than that. He was involved with an association called fist, spelled F-Y-S-S-T. It stands for—”
“Face Yesterday, Save Someone Tomorrow.”
“How did you know?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. But I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”
“Marc seemed to think that all he had to do was come back and all would be forgiven. As if that’s all it took. But I’ve told you all this before. All except for the FYSST part, but apparently you already know about that.”
“Did you tell the police everything?”
Levon stared at his hands. “Pretty much word for word what I’ve told you. I admitted knowing he planned to move here and was looking at houses with Poppy. I told them the part about saying that I wouldn’t forgive him until the day he died.”
“Did you say anything else?”
“Not to the police and not to Isla Kempenfelt.” Still staring at his hands.
Arabella resisted the urge to scream. “What about to Marc Larroquette? Did you say anything else to him?”
Levon finally looked up, his face a study in abject misery. “I told him not only that I wouldn’t forgive him, but he was as good as dead to me. It wasn’t a threat, Arabella. It was a statement. I just don’t know if the police will see it that way.
19
Arabella took another sip of wine. Saying someone was dead to you wasn’t a threat, but could it be construed as one? She had to believe it might, especially when combined with Levon’s original lie to the police. But did that make it right to withhold the statement? “You should have told Kempenfelt,” Arabella said. “She could have advised you. It’s not too late to do that.”
Levon shook his head. “We left it that she’d be there for me, should I find myself in need of a lawyer. At this point, according to Merryfield, I’m free to go about my business.” He let out a dry chuckle. “As long as my business doesn’t take me out of Cedar County—which makes it tough to earn a living as an antiques picker. People aren’t about to bring the contents of their house to me.”
“What about Shuggie?” Shuggie St. Pierre had been Levon’s apprentice for the past fourteen months.
“Shuggie is a hard worker, and he’s learned a lot in a relatively short amount of time, but he still has a lot to learn. A month ago, he bought a group of mason jars and insulators from someone who claimed to be a longtime collector. Lovely amber, emerald, and amethyst colors, but—”
“Totally fake.” Arabella knew there were plenty of unscrupulous sellers who wouldn’t balk at the obvious. Someone had altered the composition of clear glass using any number of techniques, all readily available online. While most of the articles were aimed at the do-it-yourselfer who simply wanted to create a vintage look, there were always those willing to take advantage of an unsuspecting buyer like Shuggie.
“Let me go with Shuggie if something comes up outside of Cedar County. Now that Emily is at the shop, I have a bit more latitude.” She caught Levon’s look. “Hey, this isn’t charity. Fair’s fair. If Shuggie spots something first, and it’s legit, it’s his and yours. If I spot it first, it’s mine. If there’s enough for both of us, no matter who finds what first, we split it fifty-fifty.”
“I can live with that.”
Arabella smiled. “You’re welcome. Now it’s my turn. Pour me another glass of wine and let me tell you what I know.”
Arabella started at the beginning, with Luke’s visit to the Glass Dolphin. She omitted the part about Hudson being there too, not that she had any rational reason for doing so.
“Luke said he recognized you
r father as a man who had rented a houseboat from him about a week ago. He paid cash up front for a month, plus a damage deposit, using a Pleasure Craft Operator’s card as ID.”
“So that’s where he was staying. I wondered about that.” Levon frowned. “It’s funny. He was apparently looking for a house, but I had the distinct impression he wasn’t looking for a long reunion. If anything, the whole FYYST business seemed like a scam to me—a way to make money.”
Arabella nodded. According to Emily, Kevin had suspected much the same thing. She asked Levon, “Did he ask you for money?”
“No, but I never gave him the chance.”
“Who else do you suppose he was here to see?” Finding out could be a lead to the murderer. Arabella’s pulse quickened, anticipating the thought of passing the info to Emily.
It was as if Levon read her mind. “I have no idea, but before you get the lame-brained idea to find out, stop. It’s too dangerous, and I don’t want you to get involved.”
“I’m already involved. And Emily, too.”
“Emily? Why?”
Arabella hedged, not quite ready to tell Levon everything at once. “Emily was a journalist for years, remember?”
“Writing about the housing market and looking for a murderer are two very different things.”
“She did investigative stuff, too. There was this one case in Toronto, the Kraft-Fergusson Brownfield scandal. She won awards for that exposé.”
Levon sighed. “Just tell her to be careful, okay? And be sure to tell Merryfield about the houseboat rental.”
“Of course she’ll be careful. And Luke went to the police right after he told us.”
Levon frowned. “Why didn’t Luke say something as soon as I’d identified the body as Marc Larroquette? Even if he didn’t recognize him, he should have recognized the name.”
“That’s the thing. He didn’t rent the houseboat under that name. He rented it under the name of Kevin Hollister Cartwright.”
“Kevin Cartwright. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s Emily’s ex.”
“Right. But why would he use that name? And how did he get Kevin’s ID?”
Arabella explained how easy it was to get a Pleasure Craft Operator’s Card. “There’s no photo on it, and basically you can take the test under any name, once you’re online. As for why Kevin, I convinced Emily to meet with him.”
Levon chuckled. “So Emily is more than just a little bit involved. You must’ve twisted her arm.”
“A little, but she really wants to help, and to be honest, I think she misses the investigative side of her old job. Anyway, she did meet him in Toronto. Chloe—that’s the woman Kevin dumped Emily for—and Marc Larroquette have a connection. He was her stepfather. Except Kevin knew him as Marc Laurentian.”
“Like the mountains in Quebec?”
“The same. He’s been living in a place called Goulais River for at least the past ten years and maybe longer. It’s about forty-five minutes northwest of Sault St. Marie, in case you haven’t heard of it.”
“I haven’t. I’ve never been that far north, and I’m sure my mother hadn’t either. She was a city girl, and living in the suburbs of Scarborough was like purgatory to her. But go on. You were saying Marc Larroquette, a.k.a. Laurentian, had been there at least ten years. How did you come up with the timeline?”
“That’s when he married Chloe’s mother, Alice Brampton.” Arabella studied Levon’s face for any reaction to the name. There was none.
“I’ve never heard of her, either. Not that there’s any reason I should have. My father left us fourteen years before he remarried. It sounds like Emily made the trek to Toronto for nothing. The fake ID with the houseboat rental only shows that he didn’t want to use his own name.”
“You’re wrong, Levon. Marc came to Toronto to see Chloe for the same reason he came to see you—for Face Yesterday, Save Someone Tomorrow. He told her he was ready to face his past and asked her for forgiveness. Alice Brampton had died four years ago in an automobile accident. He said he wanted to make things right with Chloe. I gather he wasn’t the best husband or stepfather.”
“Some things never change.” Levon leaned over and took Arabella’s hand in his. “I appreciate what you and Emily are trying to do, but I don’t want either one of you to get hurt. Call Merryfield, or your boyfriend, Beecham, and tell them what you’ve found out. Allow the police to do their job. Okay?”
“Aaron and I are no longer seeing one another,” Arabella said, pleased with the way she’d sidestepped Levon’s demand. She had no intention of acquiescing.
She had another plan though: find the local chapter of FYSST and join the movement.
20
Arabella woke up at three a.m. with a pounding headache and a cotton mouth. She knew from past experience that it would take her forever to get back to sleep. She closed her eyes and went over the evening in her mind.
It had started with Levon cracking open a bottle of cognac—a weakness of hers, as he well knew—after serving her barbecued steak, medium rare, just the way she liked it, along with a baked potato, and tomatoes and green beans picked fresh from his garden. It was comforting to know that not everyone in her circle had converted to vegetarianism, although the fact that Levon had a garden surprised her. In addition to the beans and tomatoes, there were cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, and radishes. “I tried growing my own lettuce,” Levon had told her with a smile, “but the rabbits kept eating it.”
The dinner had been delicious, and was followed by homemade zucchini bread—another surprise. By some unspoken agreement, there had been no more talk about Marc Larroquette- Laurentian or his murder. Instead, Levon regaled her with stories from the road, painting the picture in vivid detail as only he could.
By far the best story was the estate sale in Peterborough. The shelves were overflowing with books, a sure indication that the late owner had been an avid reader. To Levon’s advantage, the man’s daughters had neither interest in books, nor appreciation for hardcovers, which they deemed “heavy and so nineteen-eighties.” Levon offered to take the entire lot off their hands, bookcases and all, knowing that in amongst the Book of the Month Club Sidney Sheldons and Arthur Haileys, there were bound to be at least a couple books worth a few dollars. There was also a solid collection of early Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys, along with some Doc Savage. He paid a hundred dollars for the lot, packed them in his truck, and was gone before the two women could change their minds.
“Let me guess,” Arabella said, sipping cognac as the warmth of the liquid seeped down her throat and into her stomach. “There was one amazing find in amongst the bunch.”
“More than one. He actually owned half a dozen first editions, all with dust covers intact. No one especially famous.” Levon leaned back and grinned. “Well, except for the Ken Kesey.”
“Ken Kesey? As in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”
“The one and the same.” Levon proceeded to tell her about the true first edition. “As you probably know, the book was inspired by Kesey’s time working the night shift at a mental hospital. What you might not know is there was a very small first run of the original Cuckoo’s Nest, about a thousand copies if I remember correctly. Then a woman named in the book sued Kesey. His publisher, Viking, made him change the character from a Red Cross worker to a man.”
“Quite a find.”
Levon nodded. “An inscribed copy by Kesey talking about the woman and getting sued sold for over eight thousand dollars at PBA Galleries in San Francisco. The copy I have isn’t autographed, so it won’t be worth that much, but it should still fetch a hefty sum at the right auction.”
Arabella sipped her cognac. She remembered the times when they’d go out picking together, back when they had been a couple. She realized that she missed it. Missed him. Missed them. She wondered if Levon felt the same way. And then he came right out and said so.
“I want us to try again, Arabella.”
She forced her
self to put on her suit of armor; she didn’t have it in her to get hurt again. “You’re only saying that because you’re in trouble and Gilly Germaine dumped you, snotty bitch that she is.”
Levon laughed. “You see, that’s what I love about you. No pretense, no BS. You say it like you see it. But in my defense, I was going to ask you last year, around the time when you and Emily were forming a partnership. The timing didn’t seem right. The next thing I knew, you were involved with Aaron Beecham. You seemed happy with him. Were you?”
“I was. We were—for a while. He’s a good man, kind, honest, hard-working, and obviously law- abiding. But we couldn’t get our schedules to mesh, what with his work shifts and me trying to run a retail operation. Emily’s great, but like Shuggie, she still has a lot to learn. After a while, Aaron and I just stopped trying. We didn’t break up, our relationship just petered out.”
Ironically, Arabella and Aaron’s biggest argument had been over Levon and Gilly. That was one tidbit she wasn’t about to tell Levon. “If you’re so over him like you say you are,” Aaron had said, “then why do you care about his relationship with Gilly?” Arabella didn’t have an answer for that and so Aaron had supplied one. “I’ll tell you why. Because, admit it or not, you’re still in love with the man, and something tells me that’s never going to change.”
Arabella and Aaron hadn’t broken up that night, but things weren’t the same after that. It took longer to respond to each other’s voice mail messages and their texts all but stopped. Then one day it just happened—they’d drifted so far apart that it was hard to imagine why they were together in the first place. Nonetheless, Arabella felt a mixture of disappointment and relief, even though she couldn’t pinpoint why she felt either emotion, or which one was stronger.
“What about you and Gilly? You certainly seemed hot and heavy before the murder on the golf course.”
Levon shrugged. “It was fun, but it was never going to be serious. Not like it was with you and me. I’m too blue collar for the Gilly Germaines of this world. Maybe if I had my own Pickers television show…”
A Hole In One Page 8
