“Oh, I
Two
I
WICKLOW POINT, north of town, was a peninsula that hooked into the lake and pointed back toward Couchiching Park. At the end of Wicklow Road and occupying the entire peninsula was an estate enclosed by a high stone wall with a wrought-iron gate set into granite pillars. The dense stand of trees beyond the wall was flagged every fifty metres or so with NO TRESPASSING posters, whose message was emphasized by a PRIVATE: NO ENTRY sign on the gate.
I had never been out there before but found it easily enough with the GPS mounted on the handlebar of my motorcycle, a vintage 650 Hawk GT. My dad the traditionalist gave me lots of grief for using the electronic gizmo so much. “Pretty soon you’ll need that contraption to find your bedroom,” he joked.
I coasted slowly up to the gate and pushed a button below a brass grille. A hollow, tinny voice responded after a few seconds.
“You rang?”
“It’s Garnet Havelock. I have an appointment.”
“You may enter,” said the grille.
There was a click, followed by the hum of an electric motor and the rattle of chains as the gates rolled aside. I heard them closing behind me as I guided the bike slowly up the gravel drive that curved through a grove of maples, birch, and a few conifers, and into a clearing where a big two-storey stone house brooded in the shadows.
It looked like something out of a history book-slate roof with three broad chimneys, flagstone porch, oak double doors adorned with black lion’s-head knockers, mullioned windows along the first floor and dagger-shaped windows, their tips glazed with crimson stained glass, on the second. To the right of the mansion, also built of quarried granite, was a three-car garage in a stand of birch, with a concrete apron in front and along the side. This must be the “coach house” Marco had mentioned.
“The phone number I said I’d get for you,” he had announced a few days earlier at the Half Moon, slapping a scrap of paper on the table beside my coffee. “You’ll be talking to a Mrs. Stoppini about the coach house. Good luck.”
It was the same Mrs. Stoppini, I assumed, who was now standing in the doorway at the back of the house, squinting in my direction. I shut off the bike, pulled it up onto the centre stand, and hung my helmet on the handlebar. Already pessimistic that I could afford to rent space in a setup like that, I approached the house.
“Hi,” I said.
If the house seemed forbidding, Mrs. Stoppini was worse.
She was tall and skeletal, with a long face, pale skin stretched tight over flat cheekbones, intense, bulging eyes, and a wide mouth painted crimson. Her iron grey hair was cut short. Dressed entirely in black, her long- sleeved dress buttoned at the neck, she looked like something from a story told to scare children.
She scrutinized me as if she found my jeans and leather jacket below standard.
“How do you do?” she replied to my greeting. “You must be Mr. Havelock.”
“Call me Garnet,” I said.
“I am very pleased indeed to meet you, Mr. Havelock. I am Mrs. Stoppini. Do come in.”
I followed her into a spacious, well-lit kitchen with a view across the patio to the lake.
“You’ll take tea,” she informed me, turning to the countertop where a tray holding cups, a sugar bowl, and a jug had been prepared. “Any seat will do.”
Mrs. Stoppini’s enunciation was correct and formal, her English slightly accented, and she seemed to use her politeness as a shield. I did as I was told and sat at the table, trying to imagine the inside of the coach house. I could tell from the quick glance I got that it contained all the space I’d need. But why was she interested in renting it out in the first place? The stone wall, the gate, the sign-all demanded privacy. The house, the grounds, the silver tea service shouted money. Whatever the answer, the place wouldn’t come cheap. The rent would be a lot more than I could afford.
She placed the tea tray on the table, then added a plate of steaming biscuits and a bowl of pale yellow butter. She sat, her erect spine at least ten centimetres from the chair back.
“Are you enjoying this lovely weather?” she enquired woodenly.
I hated small talk. “Yes. Nice riding weather today. Motorcycle, that is-not horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I ride a motorcycle. A Honda Hawk 650.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Stoppini poured the tea. “Milk? Sugar?”
I said no thanks to both and accepted the cup. Close up, her long face, with its wan complexion, was startling. She had unusually thin lips and had applied her lipstick beyond their borders to make her mouth appear fuller. The effect was both comical and eerie.
She seemed to sense that I wasn’t up for a lot of chit-chat and got right to the point. “Mr. Grenoble has informed me that you may wish to lease the coach house,” she began.
“I’m interested,” I said. “That’s the building to the right of the house as I came in?”
She nodded, took a sip of her tea, and whacked the cup back onto the saucer, rattling the spoon.
“But I’ll have to take a good look at it before I make up my mind,” I added.
“Let us assume for the moment that you find it suitable,” she countered.
“And you need to realize that a woodshop can be noisy now and again.”
“That will not be a problem.”
I didn’t have much experience at negotiations. My father was a championship haggler who enjoyed bargaining over antiques at the store. He handled all the sales. I stayed away from that part of the business as much as I could. But if I wanted my own shop, I’d have to learn how to be a businessman. Sooner or later we’d have to talk money. Should I bring it up now? I wondered. I took a sip of tea to stall a little.
“With your permission, Mr. Havelock,” she put in, beating me to the punch, “I wish to put to you a proposition.”
I nodded, relieved that she’d taken the initiative. “Okay.”
“You may find it a trifle unusual.”
If it’s half as unusual as the person making it, I thought, it’s bound to be strange.
“And,” she went on, “I am obliged to inform you that I have made certain discreet enquiries.”
“Er, I don’t follow.”
“Concerning your family-and, of course, you. Please don’t be offended. What I am about to propose-and I would not have agreed to this meeting had I not received a glowing report on the Havelocks-requires that I place in you a considerable degree of trust.”
“You had me and my family
“Do calm yourself, Mr. Havelock, I beg you,” she exclaimed, eyes bulging. “I merely enquired of my lawyer, who is well acquainted with the town, whereas I am not. The late professor and I have led an extremely reclusive life here. All it took was a phone call. I say again: please do not take offence. My precaution-you will agree, I am sure, once you hear my ideas-was quite necessary.”
I struggled to hold down my anger. Well, you horse-faced, dried-up old stick, I can push too.
“I’ll have to look over the coach house before we go any further,” I said, setting my cup and saucer on the table and getting to my feet.
Mrs. Stoppini’s thick dark brows dived toward the bridge of her nose. She was about to object, but she checked herself. She seemed used to getting her own way. Not this time.
“If you insist,” she said.
