13 Hangmen

by Art Corriveau

  The Hangmans prospered at Hangmen Court until the witch trials of Boston drew to their spectacular close in 1689. That’s when Ethan Hangman was convicted of falsely executing innocent women for sorcery in order to confiscate their property. Which was when the Hangmans took flight in the middle of the night to escape their own noose. Which was also when a family named Hagmann turned up in Worcester and opened a rope factory. “But all they had really done was shift an n from the middle of their name to the end,” Mildred concluded.

  “They were chased out of Boston for murder?” Tony said.

  “Not before falsely accusing my very own great-great-great-plus-grandmother of witchcraft,” Mildred said. “Want a Popsicle?”

  “I’m on a diet,” Tony said.

  The door jangled. In walked Sarah, dressed in her Colonial-maid getup. “Hi, Tony,” she said. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mildred said. “How was work?”

  Mom? Sarah is Sarah Pickles?

  “Tourists,” Sarah said, sighing. She turned to Tony. “Did Mildred give you the skinny on the Hagmanns and Hangmen Court?”

  “Tony thinks one of them iced his uncle and pinned it on his dad,” Mildred said.

  “Better call the cops,” Sarah said. “Any Popsicles left?”

  “I still don’t have a motive,” Tony said.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Mildred said. “The Hagmanns are wicked desperate to get the Hangman family homestead back.”

  “Even though they stole it from our family to begin with,” Sarah said.

  “But the original house burned down,” Tony said, tapping Balthazar’s as a reminder. “And then whatever inn or tavern took its place was flattened by the city to build the town houses that are there today. What difference would it make to Benedict Hagmann or any of his ancestors whether they own Number Fifteen or Thirteen?”

  “He’s right,” Sarah said.

  “Dang,” Mildred said. “You want grape or cherry?”

  Tony’s pocket started cuckooing. “Sorry,” he said. “I just got this thing. I haven’t quite figured out how to get it to vibrate.” Julia calling. “I gotta take this,” he said. “Mom might have news about Dad.”

  While Tony answered his phone, Mildred opened the bookcase and went upstairs. Sarah slumped into the Cleopatra lounging sofa, pulled off her white cap, and fanned her face with it.

  Julia didn’t have news. But the twins were all freaked out about losing him. They claimed to have tried calling and texting him a half dozen times (which was true), but he hadn’t answered (also true). Where was he? Tony admitted he had just finished chasing a dead-end lead. Julia told him to hoof it back to the house, pronto. She was out of excuses about where Michael might be for dinner. She saw no choice but to come clean to the twins; and she wanted Tony to be there, for moral support. He told her he was on his way.

  “I gotta go,” he said to Sarah.

  “I’ll text you if we dig anything else up,” Sarah said. “Unfortunately, I’ve got another shift tomorrow. Sunday’s a big day for us.”

  “Where exactly do you work?” Tony said.

  “I’m a tour guide at the Paul Revere House,” Sarah said. “Volunteer. They can’t pay me till I turn sixteen in August. But I don’t care. I’m way into history. And heavy metal. And beagles.”

  That explained her Colonial-maid outfit. And her age.

  “Me too,” Tony said. “Well, the history part, anyway.”

  “Then you should stop by the museum sometime,” she said. “I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes tour.”

  “That’d be great,” Tony said. “Sometime.”

  When I’m not so busy trying to save my dad by catching a murderer.

  Oh, great. Old Man Hagmann was out in his front yard spraying his rosebushes with whatever toxic chemical he’d bought at the sidewalk sale. Now that Tony was trying to avoid him, he couldn’t swing a cat without hitting him. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to be deep in conversation.

  Hagmann stepped directly into his path. “So?”

  Tony said he’d call right back—as if he knew anyone in Boston except, maybe, the Pickleses—and snapped his phone shut. “What?” he said.

  “So have they officially charged your father with Angelo’s murder yet?”

  “Back off, Benny,” he said. “You may have everybody else fooled, but not me. I’ve got my eye on you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hagmann said, startled.

  “My dad’s so-called motive, for one,” Tony said. “Antonio DiMarco married Isabella Saporiti for love. And my dad loved Zio Angelo. The only family that’s been trying to get its hands on Number Thirteen—for generations—is the Hagmanns. So what’s your alibi?” Oops. He hadn’t at all meant to lose his cool and tip his hand. But it had been a long day.

  “How dare you!” Hagmann sputtered. “Angelo wanted me to have Number Thirteen out of thanks—because I was the only one who bothered to look after him once he fell ill. Not your grandfather Guido. Not your father.”

  “Yeah, well, obviously you didn’t do such a hot job,” Tony said. “So like I said, back off.” To avoid going off on the whole hangman thing, he stepped around the old man, stomped up the steps of his own front stoop, and began fumbling for his keys.

  “Come back here,” Hagmann said. “I demand to know who has been filling your head with these lies.”

  Tony slammed the door in his face.

  ony was still shaking with rage when he entered the attic. He found Angelo sitting on the bed, teaching himself how to juggle with three of the four brass knobs he’d unscrewed from the bed frame.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Angelo said.

  “Very funny,” Tony said, taking a seat beside him.

  “What the heck happened?” Angelo asked.

  Tony explained how the back deck had collapsed; how he had had to help clean up the mess; how he’d ditched the twins at the hardware store and sneaked off to Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe instead; how he’d learned from the Pickleses that the Hagmanns of Boston were actually dirty rotten ruthless hangmen from way back; and how he’d then had a fight with Benedict Hagmann on the way up here.

  “Jeepers, no wonder you’ve been gone so long,” Angelo said.

  “I’ve only got a few minutes to talk,” Tony said. “Mom’s going to tell the twins about Dad at dinner. I promised I’d totally have her back when she did. But I wanted to sneak up here first to hear what Solly’s explosion was about.”

  “Haven’t seen him yet,” Angelo said. “He must still be back in his own era, outside this anomaly thingy. But I’ve got a pretty good idea—if what Mama just told me at supper is true.”

  Before Angelo could elaborate, Solly himself burst into the room. “You are never going to believe what just happened,” he said. He motioned for Tony and Angelo to shove over on the bed.

  “You’re covered in soot,” Tony said.

  “And you smell like cookies,” Angelo said.

  “Molasses,” Solly said. “A gigantic tidal wave of oozing, sticky molasses, burbling down Atlantic Avenue, wrecking homes, lifting trolleys off their tracks, snapping telegraph wires, starting fires, injuring hundreds. Women screaming and crying, men rioting and fistfighting, kids pillaging and looting.”

  “The Great Molasses Flood of 1919,” Angelo confirmed with a nod.

  “Molasses?” Tony said. “From where?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked an Irish fireman sandbagging the entrance to Hangmen Court,” Solly said. “The fireman told me a holding tank at the Purity factory had exploded. No one knew why for sure, but it looked deliberate. The police had now barricaded off most of the Jewish quarter around the factory, he said. They weren’t letting anyone in to save their homes or search for lost relatives while they investigated the crime scene. Meanwhile, members of the fire brigade were trying to keep the flood from spreading to the rest of the neighborhood—wherever they saw the Irish symbol of two hands clasping a heart—even
though their own station had been flattened in the blast.”

  “It becomes known as a claddagh,” Tony said. “I knew an Irish exchange student back in Ann Arbor who wore the same kind of ring.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you put that claddagh knocker up on your door,” Angelo said to Solly, though he pronounced it more like cladder.

  “Not just me,” Solly said. “Suddenly they were everywhere I turned: drawn with soap on windows, hanging on flags from doorways, chalked onto the sidewalk out in front of stoops. Which was why the fire brigade was sandbagging Hangmen Court first.”

  “Sounds like claddaghs saved the day,” Angelo said.

  “Then what happened?” Tony said.

  “I started looking for Finn,” Solly said.

  He wasn’t at the pub. He wasn’t at the deli on Hanover Street, though Mameh was safe. None of the shopkeepers in the neighborhood had seen him, nor any of the renters at his other buildings. Claddaghs everywhere, but no Finn. There was only one place left to look: Purity.

  Solly sneaked past the police barricade and headed for the synagogue—the fastest way to get to the factory. Thank God the synagogue was still standing, though its roof was ablaze and men from the temple had formed a bucket brigade to douse the flames. Solly did a double take. Standing in line next to the rabbi was a soot-and-molasses-covered Finn McGinley. Solly called out to him. Finn looked over and grinned. “So you can still plant that tree today!” he shouted. Solly froze in terror. Coming up the street from the barricade was a furious-looking Frank Wallace with a half dozen goons from his gang. Coming down the street from the factory was Chester Hagmann, leading a half dozen cops toward the synagogue. “Run!” Solly shouted to Finn. When Finn saw why, he waved a sad goodbye and vanished into the crowd. Solly took Finn’s place in the bucket brigade. They soon got the fire under control. But the tree-planting ceremony was definitely canceled. So was his bar mitzvah on Saturday.

  “Wow, you really did have a terrible birthday,” Tony said.

  “Do you guys think Finn blew up his own tank?” Solly said. “No molasses, no way for Frank Wallace to make illegal rum. No way for Chester Hagmann to blackmail Finn into selling Number Thirteen. No need for my family to start packing.”

  “I’ve got some good news and bad news,” Angelo said.

  “You know what happened to Finn?” Solly said.

  Angelo nodded. “At supper, I asked Mama if she ever heard of a guy named Finn McGinley. Turns out he’s sort of a North End legend.”

  “So neither Wallace nor the cops nab him?” Solly said.

  “That’s the good news,” Angelo said. “Hagmann tried to blame him, of course. He reported to the police that Finn rented the holding tank from him, owned all that molasses, was desperate to get rid of it. But there was no way to prove it. All of Purity’s accounting ledgers were destroyed in the flood. Needless to say, Frank Wallace denied knowing anything about the tank, or what the molasses might have been for. In the end, the police blamed the explosion on unseasonably warm weather: rapid expansion of the molasses inside the tank, too much stress on the rusty seams.”

  “So all’s well that ends well,” Tony said, slapping Solly’s back.

  “Not exactly,” Angelo said. “I haven’t got to the bad news yet.”

  The bedroom door flew open. The twins! Tony clutched the edge of the bed, terrified. How was he going to explain what Angelo and Solly were doing in his room?

  “I can’t believe you ditched us,” Mikey said. “Mom went mental about us not looking after you and sticking together and stuff.”

  “Why are you sitting up here alone, talking to yourself?” Angey said.

  “What’s wrong?” Solly asked Tony.

  “Look, the door’s open,” Angelo said. “Maybe somebody came into Tony’s room during his time.”

  “I don’t see anybody,” Solly said.

  “Aren’t you getting a little old for imaginary friends?” Mikey said to Tony. “Then again, they’re probably the only ones you’ll ever make.”

  Angey didn’t laugh. He checked behind the door.

  Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, the twins couldn’t see or hear Angelo or Solly any more than either thirteen-year-old from the past could see or hear the twins. “What makes you two think you can just barge in here whenever you like?” Tony said, pointedly.

  Angelo informed Solly that Tony must be talking to his twin brothers.

  “Dad’s home,” Mikey said. “Dinner’s in five minutes.”

  I knew he was innocent!

  “I wouldn’t be grinning, if I were you,” Mikey said. “He didn’t buy you a new bed. He gave up when Mom called him about the back deck. Can’t afford it now. So it looks like you’re stuck with this one.” With that he waltzed out.

  Angey didn’t follow him. Nor did he add his usual two cents. He just stared at Tony. Tony pretended to address him, but really he was tipping Angelo and Solly off about what was going on. “Dad’s home? So what’s for dinner?”

  “There must be a break in the case,” Angelo said to Solly, “if the police have released Tony’s dad from jail.” He told Tony to eat fast and report back. Meanwhile he’d give Solly the lowdown on Tony’s afternoon. After he gave him the bad news, that is.

  “Seriously,” Angey said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “I got a cell phone for my birthday,” Tony said. “Duh.”

  “But it’s over there, on the dresser,” Angey said, pointing.

  Crap! Tony hopped off the bed, grabbed the phone, and made for the stairs. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m starving.” Not.

  “You really are as crazy as Mikey said,” Angey declared. But he peered one more time around the room before closing the door behind him.

  It was a totally weird dinner.

  Julia kept hugging Michael and squeezing his arm and kissing his forehead. She served macaroni and cheese straight out of a box with packaged frozen peas—she never bought prepared food—while Michael and Tony made up stuff about the History Mystery Tour they hadn’t actually taken. Portionwise, Tony had no problem refusing seconds; it was all he could do to choke down the first pasty, fist-size lump of macaroni stuck to his plate. Then, as Michael scooped frostbitten ice cream onto slices of leftover birthday cake, Julia gave him the update on the back-deck fiasco. The twins had gotten the names of several local contractors from the hardware store. She had called a guy named Eddie Wong, who would be stopping by tomorrow to give them an estimate for rebuilding it. Meantime, she and the twins had hung a temporary tarp over the holes in the back wall in case it rained. Tomorrow they would definitely need to finish sorting what was salvageable from what needed to be hauled to the dump. To everyone’s surprise, Tony passed on dessert. Finally the twins headed upstairs to check emails on Michael’s computer, insisting that Tony clear the table all by himself since he hadn’t lifted a finger all day.

  Tony leaped up and gave his dad a big hug. “They set you free!”

  “That’s the beauty of being innocent.” Michael grinned. “Thanks, by the way, for covering for me.”

  “He was a total rock star,” Julia said.

  “What finally convinced them?” Tony said.

  Michael told Tony and Julia the whole story:

  At about half past six, the two detectives had released him from the interrogation room with their apologies. They had just interviewed the coroner who had examined Zio Angelo’s body. There wasn’t a shred of evidence suggesting foul play. In fact, the coroner could cite only one minor irregularity—barely worth mentioning: that Zio Angelo had stopped taking his daily dose of heart medicine at some point. There wasn’t a trace of it in his bloodstream at the hour of his death. Unfortunately, old people living on their own often forgot their meds, so even that wasn’t all that unusual. As far as the detectives were concerned, the reason for Angelo’s death remained natural causes. Which was a moot point, as it turned out, since the eyewitness who had insisted they undertake their investigation to be
gin with had just telephoned the station to drop all charges. Case closed.

  “Wait, Old Man Hagmann dropped the charges?” Tony said. “What about all his allegations?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to him again!” Michael said.

  “He’s not so easy to avoid,” Tony said. “He told me he caught you breaking into Zio Angelo’s house the morning of his death.”

  “I’ve had a key since high school,” Michael said, laughing. “Whenever I visited him, I usually knocked. This time I just let myself in, since I knew that he’d moved most of his stuff into the parlor because it was hard for him to get up and down the stairs. But I didn’t know he was completely bedridden. And I was utterly surprised when Mr. Hagmann came racing up from the kitchen, waving his own key. He explained how he’d been looking after Zio Angelo round the clock since he’d had another stroke the day before, and I actually remember feeling relieved that Zio Angelo had such a good friend living right next door.”

  Hagmann has a key? Angelo swore never to let him into the house.

  “What about the envelope for Birnbaum & Birnbaum?” Tony said. “The one Hagmann said you stole from the desk? The one he saw you tuck into your pocket before rushing out the door?”

  “Zio Angelo handed me that envelope himself to send off. I just popped it into the nearest mailbox on my way to the T, since I was already running late for my conference. I had no idea it contained a will. I didn’t even know who Birnbaum was at that point—not until he contacted me to attend the reading of the will.”

  “How about that missing deed?” Tony said.

  “Mr. Hagmann didn’t leave much out, did he?” Michael said. “Still missing. Who knows what Zio Angelo did with it, or if he ever even had one? Birnbaum said there were plenty of other ways—like back taxes—to prove he owned the place.”