A Hole In One

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  Arabella laughed at the thought of Levon on TV. The next thing she knew, they were kissing and Levon was carrying her off to the bedroom, and not the spare one he’d made up for her either. She opened her eyes and turned to face her ex-husband, snoring ever so softly beside her. At a time when everything needed to stay simple, things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

  Neither one said much the next morning over breakfast: bacon, eggs, and home fries for Levon— he’d always been a believer that a liberal dose of grease was the best cure for a hangover—and dry toast and strong black coffee for Arabella.

  “We should talk about last night,” Levon said while they were doing the dishes, her washing and him doing the drying and putting away.

  “No,” Arabella said. “No, we shouldn’t. Last night was a stroll down memory lane. A very nice cognac-fueled stroll, but not one that we should repeat any time soon. There’s too much history between us for it to work.”

  “What if I don’t agree?” His indigo blue eyes stared hard into her green ones.

  Arabella fought her desire to drag Levon by his shaggy brown hair right back into the bedroom. “Even if I thought our getting back together was a good idea, our priority has to be finding out who the real murderer is and clearing your name. We can’t be distracted by…last night.”

  “I thought you’d promised to stay out of it and let the police do their job.”

  Annoyance quickly squashed any additional amorous thoughts. “I don’t remember promising any such thing. Besides, Emily needs the diversion. I can’t have her moving back to Toronto because she misses the thrill of the hunt. Researching antique sewing trinkets doesn’t have the same appeal.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you’re going ahead with your ill-advised investigation, even if I don’t want you to.” Levon’s eyes suddenly shifted to icy gray, the way they got when he was seriously irritated.

  “I just want to help.”

  “Then promise me you’ll stay out of this.”

  Arabella stood up and gave Levon a quick hug. “Um… I need to leave now. I have a store to open. Just don’t worry about me, okay?” She had no intention of promising anything. She had an investigation to get underway, and no matter what Levon said he wanted, he’d thank her in the end. She decided to start with Nigel Watters, the new owner and resident busybody of the Sunrise Café. If there was anything worth knowing, he’d have the latest scoop.

  21

  Levon couldn’t believe he’d slept with Arabella last night. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, at least not with his head. It was true that he still loved her, but she didn’t love him back. She’d made that perfectly clear. Her fling with Aaron Beecham should have clued him in—just one more reason why they shouldn’t have gotten back into bed together, cognac or not.

  But damn, it had felt good.

  Was he being a hypocrite? He had been with Gilly Germaine for the past few months. No, on further consideration, he wasn’t, because he’d only taken up with Gilly after Aaron had stepped into the picture.

  Gilly. She’d certainly made herself scarce since the incident at the golf tournament. That’s how he preferred to think of it: an incident. It seemed less personal that way.

  Except it was personal. He knew it. Gilly knew it. Arabella knew it. Emily knew it. The police knew it: Merryfield, Beecham, Byrne—three very different cops with the same doubts about his innocence.

  Levon shivered, feeling empathy for Samuel Lount, the nineteenth-century traitor Lount’s Landing had been named after. He’d gone to his death unapologetic, his name cleared far too late to save him from the hangman.

  Levon couldn’t let that happen to him, which was why he hadn’t told anyone about the gun.

  22

  Arabella was running late, and in her mind for a good reason: she was on a mission. Her first stop, which she temporarily tagged as “home,” was at an impersonal midtown rental a brisk twenty-minute walk to the Glass Dolphin that would, finances one day permitting, be replaced with a place of her own. She showered and changed before calling the shop. Arabella was pleased to hear that Emily had already opened and, even better, she was doing just fine on her own. She told Emily that she would be another hour, possibly longer.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Home, and since I’m already running late, I was thinking of stopping off at the Sunrise Café to talk to Nigel. You know what an old gossip he is. I figure he might have heard something.”

  “So the investigation is officially on. I gather Levon approves.”

  Arabella chuckled. “Not exactly, but I can’t just let him sit around and wait for who knows what.

  Anyway, I have a couple of ideas. I’ll run them by you when I get there.”

  “It’s not like you to be late,” Emily said. “Anything you’d like to share?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I see you.” Arabella hung up before Emily went all investigative reporter on her. As for filling her in, the part about sleeping with Levon last night wasn’t a topic open for discussion. She knew Levon would feel the same way.

  Arabella did her best to tame her auburn curls, then selected a pair of black capris and a silky tee shirt in muted shades of green and blue. She slipped on a pair of sandals and was out the door, feeling oddly energized by her decision to solve the mystery of Marc Larroquette.

  The walk to the restaurant took her past the Main Street Elementary School, a vacant building which had been the cause of three murders in the normally sleepy town of Lount’s Landing. It was still up for sale after several months on the market with two different, but unsuccessful, realtors. It appeared the original realtor, Poppy Spencer, had been given another try at the listing.

  Word on the street said that Poppy had wined and dined—and possibly a bit more than that—the administrative chair at the school board in charge of property sales and acquisitions. Arabella hoped Poppy wasn’t planning to float the mega-box store idea again to another buyer.

  Arabella arrived at the Sunrise Café five minutes later. 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. Nothing much had changed inside since Nigel Watters had taken it over. Arabella wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t done anything with Frankie’s Fish and Chips when he bought it either. He’d kept the old name, and now he’d sold Frankie’s to buy the Sunrise Café. It looked like the new owners were going to keep Frankie’s name too. Why pay for a new sign and menus if you didn’t have to?

  Nigel was reading the latest issue of Inside the Landing, the one with the sketch of Marc Larroquette. It was ten-thirty, the calm between the breakfast rush and the lunchtime crowd. His only waitress, Fran, a serious looking woman in her mid-forties with frizzy brown hair tied back with a scrunchie, was busy wiping down tables and setting up menus, napkins, and cutlery for the next wave of customers.

  “Hey Fran,” Arabella said. “Coffee please, black, and the strongest blend you’ve got back there.” The Sunrise Café didn’t have lattes or cappuccinos, but Nigel’s addition of select teas and flavored coffees had proven to be popular.

  “You got it,” Fran said. “Want your usual cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter to go with it?”

  “Not today. I had some dry toast at…I had some dry toast already.”

  Fran raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

  Arabella slid into a chair at a table for two, directly across from Nigel. Since he was the cook, it looked like her food would be delayed a while, which was probably just as well. As she expected, he was more than ready to talk.

  “Hi Arabella, I heard about the golf tournament. You must have been scared witless, finding that dead body.” Nigel spoke from experience, having once discovered a dead body.

  “You could say that,” Arabella said, then pro
ceeded to satisfy Nigel’s gossip tooth, starting with the events at the second hole and the eventual discovery of Marc Larroquette’s body at the third. Nigel hung onto every word. So did Fran. She’d kept close enough to hear what they were saying after serving Arabella her coffee, and since the restaurant was empty, had finally given up the pretense, pulling up a chair to listen.

  “I had no idea who the man was until Levon came by and identified him to the police. I’d never met Levon’s father before. As you know, they’d been estranged.” Arabella spoke the last words in a quiet whisper. Seriously, she’d missed her calling as an actress.

  “I didn’t know until Kerri’s column,” Fran said.

  “Speaking of Kerri St. Amour,” Nigel added, “she came in here yesterday acting like she was trying to tell me something, when all she really wanted was to see if I knew anything. Even if I knew anything juicy, I was not about to pass any information to her. There’s something about that woman I don’t trust.”

  Arabella was a bit embarrassed since she had come to the restaurant for the same reason as Kerri, albeit for a nobler cause. She was here to help Levon, not to dig up dirt like Kerri.

  “Actually, Nigel, I’m probably not much better than Kerri. Everyone seems to suspect Levon, but I know in my heart he didn’t kill his father. I was hoping you or Fran might have seen or heard of something that could help me.” Fran seemed to preen at the thought of being a source, while Nigel assessed her with his pale blue eyes.

  “Emily is going to help as well. You know how good she is at the investigative stuff.”

  Nigel nodded. “She’s one hell of an interviewer, too.” Arabella knew that Nigel was quite fond of Emily. He liked to tell folks they had worked a case together before. Although Emily didn’t deny it, the truth was that Nigel’s story was more than a bit of a stretch.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone suspicious.” He chuckled. “Well, beyond the usual suspects. Chantal Van Schyndle, Caitie Meadows, and Poppy Spencer are my most regular regulars, and all three were at the tournament. From what they told me, the police asked them a few questions, took down their contact information, and then they were free to go. None of them admitted to knowing anything more than what was in the paper or that blog. I believe them.”

  Arabella had to agree. The most Chantal would be guilty of was overcharging her clientele.

  Caitlyn “Caitie” Meadows had been supplying the Glass Dolphin for the past few months with vintage costume jewelry on consignment. Caitie was eternally happy, scrupulously honest, and what she didn’t know about costume jewelry made before 1980 wasn’t worth knowing. Arabella couldn’t imagine Caitie with a gun—unless it was a glue gun—let alone firing it into a man at the golf course. As for Poppy, she would have seen Marc as a possible client and dead men don’t buy property. Arabella could understand why the police had lost interest in all three, though it was disappointing that they didn’t have anything to add. Then again…

  “Chantal and Poppy were in the group ahead of us, which meant they were the first ones at the third hole. Ned was with them, but there was also a guy I didn’t know. Miles Pemberton. Do you know him?”

  Nigel nodded. “He’s from Toronto. Poppy’s been seeing him for about a month now. Whether she sees him as a boyfriend or as a potential investor is hard to say. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him though. He’s got one of those house flipper shows on TV. Pemberton on Property. He buys fixer-uppers, renovates them, and then sells them for a profit. He’s been in here a couple of times. Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “Sometimes he renovates with the idea of renting,” Fran added. “It’s entertaining, though I’ll admit I’m addicted to those home shows. From what I can gather, he’s been looking at houses with Poppy with the idea of filming one. So far, he hasn’t seen anything he likes.”

  “I’m not much of a TV watcher, so that would explain why I didn’t recognize him,” Arabella said, “but my guess is that Poppy’s interest in him isn’t entirely romantic, not that it matters. I don’t see him coming up here and shooting Marc Larroquette. And speaking of Marc, did he ever come in here? You saw the sketch of him in Inside the Landing.”

  “Detective Merryfield asked me the same question yesterday afternoon,” Nigel said. “Neither Fran or I remember seeing him, and a stranger would have stuck out.”

  That was another dead end, though not unexpected. Arabella figured Marc would have stayed close to Lakeside where he’d been renting the houseboat. Primarily a tourist area in the summer, one more middle-aged guy wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses would blend into the background, nameless, faceless.

  “There was this man last week,” Fran said. “I’m not saying he was a stranger, but he’s never been in here before or since. He didn’t look like the man in the sketch, though. This guy was your average run-of-the-mill sort, might have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium build.”

  “Why do you remember him if he was so ordinary?” Arabella asked.

  “It was what he ordered. A BLT with double bacon and mustard instead of mayonnaise.”

  “I remember that order,” Nigel said. “Who puts mustard on a BLT?”

  “Do you remember anything else about him, Fran?” Arabella asked before Nigel could get into an elaborate story.

  “He was on his phone part of the time. He spoke quietly, almost a mumble. I guess he didn’t want to disturb the other customers.”

  Or he didn’t want anyone to hear what he was saying.

  “I did overhear him saying something about a fist though,” Fran said, her face coloring.

  Arabella perked up. “A fist. Are you sure?”

  Fran nodded. “I remember thinking, that’s all we need, a guy with a temper coming in here threatening someone with his fists. But he hung up and ate his BLT without incident. Left me a decent tip, too.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Probably. For sure if he wore the same sleeveless Canada tee shirt. He had a tattoo of a wagon wheel on his upper right arm.” Fran stopped. “Now why didn’t I make the connection before?”

  “What connection?” Arabella and Nigel asked at the same time.

  “The tattoo. It was a wagon wheel with five spokes, and there was a letter inside every spoke. F- Y-S-S-T. Fist.”

  23

  Arabella popped into the Glass Dolphin first, just to make sure Emily was doing okay on her own. The store had been quiet, Emily assured her, with just Etta Mills coming by to take still another look at the mission oak sideboard. It was the fifth time Etta had been in to look at it.

  The sideboard wasn’t Stickley, but it was a fine example of American Arts & Crafts, with original finish and hardware, and it wasn’t oversized. It would fit nicely in a small home or condo.

  “I think we’re getting one step closer to her buying it,” Emily said. “Today she asked me if there was any flexibility in the price. Up until now, she’s only opened and closed the doors and drawers.”

  Arabella knew they needed to sell it. Although the sideboard was a beautiful piece of furniture, it had been on the shop floor since she’d opened. On top of that, she’d already discounted all her “brown furniture” by twenty percent—brown furniture being currently out of favor in the market. That said, there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room in the price, and she wasn’t willing to sell it at a loss. Besides, weren’t antiques the original recyclable? Surely she could sell the whole “antiques are green” philosophy the industry had been trying to promote for years.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her you’d give it some thought and call her later in the week. I don’t want her to think we’re desperate or anything.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She made a comment that it had been here a while. I told her that might be so, but it didn’t eat any bread.”

  Arabella laughed. Emily did have a way of explaining things. “Anything else?”


  “I updated the website with a few new photos, including the sideboard—which should get Etta nervous, added a couple more items on eBay, and listed two of the Cunard ocean liner posters on Craigslist.” Emily tapped on her keyboard. “Here’s the listing: ‘Fabulous pair of nineteen-fifties Cunard White Star ocean liner posters depicting the Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary. Did someone in your family immigrate on one of these ships? Find these and more nostalgia at the Glass Dolphin antiques shop on Lount’s Landing’s historic Main Street. More photos available. Price on request.’” Emily looked up. “What do you think?”

  “We haven’t done Craigslist before, but I think it might work. The family tie connection is clever.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to try and do some more of that sort of thing, especially if this works out. There’s a woman who specializes in genealogy that I met at the Women in Business Networking

  Association in Marketville a couple of weeks ago. She may have other ideas.”

  Arabella had to applaud Emily’s initiative. She would never have thought of the immigration angle, and she wasn’t much on networking groups. For the umpteenth time since they’d become partners Arabella thanked her lucky stars for Emily. But right about now, she needed her to do some sleuthing to help Levon.

  “It all sounds fantastic. Since you’re doing okay, I’m going to head over to Birdsong and pay Ned Turcotte a visit.”

  “Why Ned?”

  “I’ll fill you in on everything when I get back.”

  Emily grinned. “Including why you still have that look of ‘I just had great sex last night’ on your face?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Arabella said, but she knew her face was as red as her hair. She stomped toward the door and called out before she left, “See what you can find out about FYSST. Maybe there’s a local chapter we can join.”