Cheat the Hangman

by Gloria Ferris

  “Of course not. He lives in Northton, in the house he and Caroline bought together last year. I hear he wants her back, but Caroline is too smart to fall for that young man’s lies any more. At Hammersleigh House she can get a fresh start. If anyone deserves it, she does. I’ll be popping in to see her now and again, just to make sure she’s doing well.”

  “Please come anytime. Now, about Scott, just what was it…?”

  But Babs seemed to feel she had said enough. She gave us directions to the archives and returned to her romance novel. Patsy had been standing by my side throughout this exchange, dabbing at her damp forehead and silent as a mute swan for once. Not like her at all.

  She followed me along the dark corridor that led to the stairs to the third floor. As soon as we were out of earshot of Babs and the two or three other book lovers who had been standing near the front desk, ears flapping and eyes avid with curiosity, I turned to Patsy. “What do you think Scott did to Caroline that was so terrible?”

  “Don’t know.” She tore her collar open to let the steam escape. “I can’t stand the heat anymore.”

  “Yeah, it is hot, but I bet I’ll find out sooner rather than later. I have a pretty good idea anyway.” I halted at the bottom of a steep flight of narrow stairs. There was no handrail. “Do you think these are the stairs Babs meant?”

  “Must be, there isn’t any other. My, these are steep, aren’t they?”

  It was impossible to walk upright. We crawled up on our hands and knees.

  “Don’t look down,” I cautioned Patsy who was literally bringing up my rear.

  The stairs opened into an attic space. We surveyed the Blackshore archives. I’ve been in saunas that were cooler, and no place that was less tidy. And that includes my son’s bedroom during his “make my day” years.

  There were rusting metal file cabinets, cardboard boxes and piles of newspapers everywhere. And nowhere did I see a table or a single chair. The heat was skin shrivelling. I looked at Patsy and watched the moisture drip from her upturned nose and run in rivulets down her round cheeks. Her hair was curled tightly again. I could feel my own hair doing the same thing.

  “Look.” She knocked me aside in her haste to get to the other side of the cluttered room. “Fans.”

  It took a minute or two to get the three fans blowing in directions that dried the sweat on our skin, but didn’t send the loose papers flying ceiling ward.

  “Do you think there’s any order to this mess?” I didn’t expect an answer. Only chaos reigned in this forgotten world.

  “Doesn’t look like it, but the newspapers might be stacked by year. You start there and I’ll look in this corner first.” Good old Patsy, her organizational tendencies surfaced despite herself.

  “Well, try not to mix things up,” I joked as moisture ran down my bare legs and made my feet squelch in my sandals. “We should have brought some water with us. We won’t be able to stay here for long.”

  The stacks of newspapers were arranged by year, but not consecutively. The pile from 1965 was beside 1987, which was next to 1949. I finally found 1943, but not before stopping to read about the end of the Korean War in 1953 in which several Blackshore residents served, don’t ask me why. I guessed they were either too young for World War II, or they were veterans of that great conflict and wanted to re-experience the excitement of dodging grenades and mortar shells.

  I was disappointed in the coverage that Tommy’s disappearance received. I quote the article in its entirety from the July 28, 1943, edition:

  TRAGEDY STRIKES PEMBROOKE REUNION

  The town of Blackshore shares the grief of the Pembrooke family as they mourn the disappearance of twenty-two month old Thomas Adam Pembrooke from Hammersleigh House during the Pembrooke Family Annual Reunion. The infant was found to be missing from his cot on the Sunday morning of the reunion weekend, and intensive searches conducted by family and volunteers throughout the house and grounds have turned up no trace.

  It is believed that young Thomas may have wandered out of the house during the night and become lost in the wooded area adjacent to the lawns and grounds. Searches are continuing, but hopes of finding the child are waning after four days.

  Police Chief Percival V. McPherson had no statement to give this reporter but did assert that the search parties would not give up until the child was found, whether dead or alive. Thomas is the son of Wisteria and Captain Thomas Pembrooke. Captain Pembrooke is serving with the First Canadian Infantry Division in Italy and is not yet aware of the family tragedy.

  The next week’s account was even briefer. There was one short paragraph stating that Thomas Adam Pembrooke, age twenty-two months, was still missing and the search had been discontinued. There was a chance he had been kidnapped. The week after that there was nothing. And there was no mention of the stolen Meissen figurine.

  Patsy was still in her corner, thumbing through piles of yellowed paper with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. I read the two articles to her, but she didn’t respond.

  “Have you found anything there?”

  “Nothing. These are just council meeting minutes from the 1960s.” She raised a red and dripping face. “Let’s go. I don’t think we’ll find anything more.”

  “Probably not, but you have to admit, this is kind of fun. I think I’ll come back here some day when it’s not so hot.”

  She gave me one of her eye rolls. “Come on. I’m dying.”

  “In a minute. I haven’t looked in these filing cabinets yet.” I pulled open the top drawer of the nearest cabinet and rummaged.

  “No, seriously, Lyris, I have to get out of here. I’ve stopped sweating, which means I’m dehydrated and the next stage is death.” She was exaggerating as usual. She hadn’t stopped sweating at all.

  “Look what I’ve found. Police reports. I wonder what they’re doing here.”

  “Let me see.” She shouldered me out of the way and pulled out the first file. “This is from 1951, so the rest of this cabinet should date after that. Look into that one and see if it’s older.”

  It didn’t work that way. The 1943 records were at the other end of the room near the solitary round window against which two blue bottles butted helplessly. I moved one of the fans closer.

  The file we wanted was in the second drawer from the bottom, with “Pembrooke, Thomas” hand lettered in faded brown ink on the top. There were three pieces of paper in it.

  A quick search verified that this was the only file on Tommy. Just one file with three pieces of paper. I pulled them out. All three were in the same handwriting and signed by Percival V. McPherson, the police chief. The writing was difficult to read, as faded and brown as that on the folder. There was little more information than appeared in the newspaper account.

  Only two additional facts. The first was a list of the names of the people who had stayed in the house that weekend. Captain Patrick Pembrooke, age 31; Lieutenant Bruce Wingate, age 29; Sergeant Clematis Pembrooke, age 21; and Mrs. Thomas Pembrooke, age 20, mother of the victim. The other mentioned the theft of a valuable “Myson” figurine.

  “Well, here’s our suspect list, Patsy. Four of them.”

  That got her attention. “Suspects? You’re doing it again, aren’t you, Lyris? Trying to get me involved in some stupid scheme. Well, it won’t work this time. I have enough on my mind without trying to figure out what happened well over sixty years ago. It was likely an accident, and sure, somebody hid the body. But that might have been out of fear of discovery. Can’t you just for once leave well enough alone?”

  She slammed the drawer shut and stomped off toward the stairs. I grabbed her by the arm and swung her around.

  “Okay. What’s wrong? It’s not like you to get angry like this. Is it Nick? Or one of the boys?”

  “No, it isn’t anything.” She wrenched away. I grabbed her again.

  “I’m going to keep you here until you tell me why you’re so upset. They’ll find our mummified bodies in this attic fifty years from now.�
��

  Without warning, she slumped to the floor and started sobbing.

  I didn’t have anything to dry her with, so I wiped her face with the tail end of her cotton polo shirt. I let her carry on for a minute or two until she showed signs of slowing down.

  “We’ve been friends for over thirty years, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then, you know I’ll do anything I can to help. If I can’t, at least you’ll feel better if you share it.”

  She took one long, shuddering breath and looked up at me. Her swollen, unhappy eyes made me want to wail, too.

  “I’m losing my job. The three hospitals in Bruce County are amalgamating, and there is going to be one administrator. And it won’t be me. The administrator at Northton Memorial has been given the job.”

  I was dumfounded. Patsy had worked at the Blackshore Hospital since graduation from Business College and had been administrator for the last five of those years.

  “But won’t they need assistant administrators?”

  “One, and that isn’t me either. I’m the most junior.”

  “So you’re out of a job, just like that? Won’t they try and find you another position?”

  “There is nothing else for me. I sign a contract every year, and it’s up the end of August.”

  “What does Nick say? Does he know yet?”

  “He says not to worry, something will come up. And we can live just fine on his salary although that’s not the point. What will I do after all these years? I’ve always worked, except for two maternity leaves.”

  What could I say to my best friend? Her news stunned me. Never would I have expected that she would lose her job. She was a wonderful administrator, had in fact won an award of excellence in her field two years in a row.

  We bumped down the stairs on our behinds and parted at our cars in front of the library. I would see her again in a few hours and by that time I hoped I could find some words of comfort.

  Back at Hammersleigh, I ran upstairs to my bedroom, almost too upset to notice the scent, again gone almost before it was there, or to feel the tingle between my shoulder blades.

  After a cooling shower, I threw open the armoire where my clothes hung and surveyed the choices. Shorts were not appropriate. Long pants were too hot. I settled for a cotton sundress, red with minuscule white dots. It was too humid to contemplate a gold chain around my neck, and I decided that pearl studs were the only jewellery I could tolerate. I was pulling the dress over my head when I again had the feeling that I was being watched. This time, the hair on the nape of my neck stood on end.

  I smoothed the dress in place and looked around. The trouble was, you could hide a whole army of trolls in that room. And there weren’t any plants, for good reason. If a growing green thing wanted to live, it didn’t live with me.

  The door was not tightly closed. I must have neglected to shut it properly when I returned from the bathroom. As I watched, the door opened an inch or two wider, then another inch. I looked around the room for a weapon, but the closest item to hand was a four-inch makeup brush. Wonderful, I could fluff him to death.

  Into the room lumbered the most evil-looking creature I had ever seen. It was black, with a huge head, and a tail about three feet long. The face looked pushed in, with copper eyes that blinked in my direction.

  Did I mention how enormous it was? It must have weighed twenty-five pounds. Back away slowly and don’t make eye contact. I shouldn’t show fear.

  Then reason prevailed. It was a cat, just a cat. It was Caroline’s damn cat.

  “Well, you must be Rasputin.” My heart slowed to normal and the adrenaline stopped flowing. I felt weak and sank onto the bed.

  A dusty off-white shadow slipped in behind the cat. For once she wasn’t barking and acting like an idiot, and I knew why. “Jacqueline. You know you aren’t supposed to be up here. Take your new friend back downstairs and stay there. And you, Rasputin, you may as well know from the start that I will not tolerate your presence in the main house. Please stick to the employees’ wing or the outdoors. But you are not to hunt birds, squirrels or chipmunks either. If you do, you will be taken to the pound. Ask Jacqueline. She knows I mean it.”

  Both creatures turned and left without making a sound or even looking at me. I slammed the door behind them. Pets could be destructive and messy, and I couldn’t take a chance with Hammersleigh’s furniture or carpets. Everything in the house was an antique and valuable, except the kitchen appliances, which were new and valuable. And I was personally responsible for every single item.

  Thinking of the kitchen made my stomach rumble. The tomato sandwich Caroline made for me at noon was long digested and dinner wasn’t until seven. With all the activity going on in the kitchen, a snack was out of the question.

  I gathered my hair up into a high ponytail, put on some blush, eyeliner and lipstick and went downstairs and out onto the terrace. There was no shade except for the puny shadows cast by four potted orange trees. I crossed the flagstones to a row of stone urns.

  Yellow and purple pansies bloomed there, looking decidedly unhappy. Their heads drooped in the heat and I looked around for a watering can or hose. There was a rolled up hose close to the house and I spent fifteen minutes rehydrating the pansies, and even gave a squirt or two to the orange trees.

  I was fingering a limp coneflower, and wondering if I dared tax the well any further, when I heard a voice behind me.

  “The black thumb strikes again, I see.” The familiar voice made my empty stomach churn faster.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Stud of Bruce County.”

  My ex-husband and I contemplated each other across the patio, practiced adversaries waiting for the other to make the first combative move.

  He broke first.

  “Someone pushing forty shouldn’t wear her hair in a ponytail. It’s very aging.”

  “Someone who is forty shouldn’t wear red plaid shorts. You look like a bagpipe.”

  The pleasantries over, he came over and slumped on the wrought-iron bench underneath one of the orange trees. I sat on the other end. Dennis had put on at least twenty pounds since high school, and the damp white golf shirt emphasized his burgeoning belly roll. Sweat dropped from his thinning blond hair and was rerouted by his eyebrows to run down the sides of his cheeks. Although my hormones belonged to another now, I admitted he might still be attractive on a cooler day.

  “So how are you, Dennis? And your daughter, and the teenage bride?”

  “I’m fine, Amy is fine, and Tracey is not a teenager. She’s pregnant again, though.” He sounded rather gloomy for a proud father.

  “Yes, I heard. Congratulations. Are you hoping for a boy or girl this time? Although I guess it doesn’t much matter since you have one of each now.”

  He didn’t answer, just gazed at the maples that bordered the lawn at the bottom of the garden. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes till my guests were due to arrive. “So did you come here for something special?”

  He looked at me, his eyes serious. “Well, I thought I would run into Mitch here and invite him to dinner tomorrow night before he has to go back to his summer job.”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll tell him to call you. His girlfriend is coming too, you know.”

  He nodded, then just sat there, staring at the trees. “Are you feeling all right, Dennis?” Not that I cared, but he was my son’s father, so I felt compelled to pretend.

  “I’m fine.” He gave vent to a lung-collapsing sigh.

  I was losing interest fast, but before I could excuse myself, a high-pitched “Yoo‑hoo” sounded from the parking area. The next instant, my cousin Jody tripped around the corner in a pair of sandals with dangerously high heels and a black sundress with a halter top and no skirt to speak of.

  Dennis brightened up at this vision, straightening his shoulders and running his hand through his hair. I couldn’t blame him. Any male with an ounce of testosterone would have reacted to Jody, and mos
t did.

  “Lyris, darling. I’m so happy to see you.”

  “You are? Why?”

  She laughed and slapped me on the arm. “Oh, you. You’re always kidding. What are you doing with this handsome ex-husband of yours? Not getting back together, are you? That would break poor Marc’s heart for sure and I’d have to give him another chance.”

  I was tempted to slap her back, harder. Marc had taken her out for a brief time last winter before he and I met over a traffic ticket I didn’t deserve, and she never missed a chance to remind me that she had been there first. Jody had been there first with most of the men in Blackshore between the ages of eighteen and seventy. Make that eighty. Jody was an equal-opportunity skank.

  “So what can I do for you, Jody?” Please, God, let her leave soon, before anybody else gets here. And let her take Dennis along.

  “Oh, I just thought you might give me a tour of the house. Dear Uncle Patrick was such a recluse, I have never been anywhere except the main rooms on the ground floor. Since Uncle Patrick saw fit to leave the house to you, maybe you’ll allow the rest of us to visit once in a while.”

  It was more likely she heard I was having guests for dinner and wanted to ruin it for me. “Not today, Jody. I’m having some people over for dinner. But another time…”

  “You’re having your ex-husband for dinner? How modern. Is your wife here too, Dennis? I hear she’s expecting again.”

  “Dennis isn’t staying. He just dropped by to speak to Mitch.” Dennis hadn’t said a word since Jody’s appearance, but he was drooling a little. I had to get them both out of the grounds, fast. I gave Dennis a slight shove to get him moving toward Jody, trusting he would follow her.

  Two more figures appeared from the direction of the car park. An Adonis and his goddess walked over to us, their fair heads shimmering under the late afternoon sun.

  My son was stunning, if I do say so myself. He was slim hipped and wide shouldered, with his father’s hair and my eyes. He seemed unaware of his looks, however, and appeared astounded that a beautiful young woman like…uh…I could never remember her name…had consented to be with him.