“About ninety minutes northeast of Toronto. A charming little hamlet nestled along the shores of the Dutch River. We’ve arranged for a monthly lease on a Victorian row house within walking distance to the town’s Main Street. Even better, we’ll cover the rent for the course of the assignment.”
Emily tried not to stare. Urban Living Publications, or rather, Urban-Huntzberger, had rented a Victorian row house? In a town called Lount’s Landing? For a long-term assignment? What on earth?
“I know, dear. It’s all rather overwhelming, but we specifically selected you for the assignment. You’re a talented writer. A thorough researcher. A hard worker. Utterly reliable. More importantly, you know the business from top to bottom.”
Maybe the last five years of trying to put a new spin on the same old condo stats hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But permit me to be perfectly frank. There was one other important consideration. You don’t appear to have any ties to hold you here.” Michelle turned to her computer, pulled up a document, and began reading. “No siblings. Both parents deceased. Father when you were fourteen. Stomach cancer. Mother two years ago.” She paused. “Accidental overdose.”
Emily went from stunned silence to outright indignation. They had been investigating her? Knew, or at least suspected, about her mother’s suicide?
And what was all that nonsense about not having any ties in Toronto? Sure, Kevin might have dumped her for that blonde bimbo who called herself a personal trainer, but it wasn’t like she didn’t have a friend to her name. Besides, she’d known it was over with Kevin for a long time. But she’d invested so much time and energy in him, trying to make it work. And then for him to up and leave her, as if she had been nothing more than a meaningless diversion…
“If you’re trying to portray me as a loner loser —”
“Not at all, dear, not at all. We understand the healing power of solitude. We also know you privately loathe Garrett Stonehaven. Not without cause, if our research into your mother’s situation can be trusted. All things considered, we believe you’re the perfect candidate for this assignment.”
All things considered? What did that arrogant SOB Garrett Stonehaven have to do with an assignment in Lount’s Landing? His turf had always been in Toronto’s downtown core. More importantly, what did all this have to do with her mother’s death, accidental or otherwise?
“We particularly enjoyed your exposé of the Kraft-Fergusson brownfield development,” Michelle continued. “And you’re always saying how much you enjoy the investigative side of journalism. We’re simply willing to provide the opportunity, albeit at a much higher level. We’re also willing to compensate you handsomely for the privilege, including benefits and stock options.”
Emily thought back to her coverage of the brownfield scandal, the weeks of investigative research, trying to learn all she could about the types of hazardous waste and chemical pollutants industries like Kraft-Fergusson left behind. Remembered the long days of chasing down leads, the hours of writing and rewriting.
It had been one of the most rewarding—and frustrating—experiences of her career. Rewarding because she had finally been taken seriously as a journalist. Frustrating because, despite the fact that HavenSent Developments owned the Kraft-Fergusson land, she’d never managed to pin any of the toxic dirt on Garrett Stonehaven. Thanks to his accountant, Eldon Thornbury, a vile man who slithered through loopholes and then sewed up the ends, HavenSent, and Stonehaven by association, had been completely exonerated of any wrongdoing. Had been lauded, in fact, for their utmost co-operation with all authorities.
“You have my attention.”
Michelle reached into a drawer and pulled out a contract.
“First, Emily, we need you to agree to our terms and conditions, the usual confidentiality and exclusivity verbiage. I assure you, nothing sinister is behind the offer. We have only your best interests at heart. Of course, if you don’t want the gig, there are plenty of other writers who would jump at the opportunity. Kerri St. Amour, for example.”
Kerri say-no-more? They were comparing her to that backstabbing hack? Emily glanced at the numbers in front of her and thought hard. Get the goods on Stonehaven and get paid for the pleasure. There was enough money on the table to stop renting, put a down payment on a place of her own. Maybe take a few months off, write the historical romance she’d been dabbling with for years. It might be therapeutic to start over, go to a place where nobody knew her, a place where she wasn’t Kevin’s somewhat pathetic ex-fiancée. But was it all too good to be true? There had to be a catch. In her life, there was always a catch.
“What would I have to do?”
“HavenSent Developments is exploring a development opportunity in Lount’s Landing. Nothing unusual, though it is a bit far afield, even for someone as ruthless as Garrett Stonehaven. But our source tells us there’s more to Stonehaven’s latest plan than meets the eye. Much more.”
“Where do I fit in?”
“The town has a monthly magazine, Inside the Landing. It’s a promotional glossy, similar to Urban Living, albeit on a much smaller scale, with stories about businesses in the community. Runs about forty pages, could be more if the ad revenue was there. It now falls under the Urban-Huntzberger umbrella. The previous owner had been ready to sell out and retire for some time.”
“And my role?”
“You would be responsible for all the editorial content, make some much-needed improvements to the publication. In fact, we’d encourage it as part of your cover.”
Ah ha, catch number one. Part of my cover. Mind you, it did sound intriguing. “If I agree?”
“You’d move to Lount’s Landing. Get to know the town, the people, make some friends. Find out what Garrett Stonehaven’s up to. And write us an exclusive that will have Urban-Huntzberger’s stock market value skyrocketing higher than the latest GTA condo.”
Emily suspected this went way beyond a publisher trying to make money. What had Stonehaven done to warrant a Michelle Ellis sponsored witch-hunt? Who was Michelle’s source of information? She cursed herself for wanting to find out, when every instinct told her to run.
“And the source?”
“Better you don’t know. That way you can observe everyone with the same degree of neutrality, although we have arranged for you to connect with a Johnny Porter. He’s the chairman of the Main Street Merchants’ Association. He seems keen to keep Inside the Landing operational, although that’s all he knows. It would be best for all concerned if you kept it that way.”
Emily nodded. It certainly sounded as though Urban-Huntzberger had everything covered. She wondered whether she should study the contract, contact a lawyer. Take a moment to decide whether this was the opportunity of a lifetime or an act of insanity. “How long do I have?”
“We need an answer ASAP. You’d move in by the end of the month, sooner if possible. The rental house has been recently renovated and is currently available.”
Michelle stood up. “Emily, you’ve been in this business long enough to know this kind of assignment doesn’t come along every day. Work with us. Get rich with us. And help us to expose Garrett Stonehaven for the lying, cheating, bastard we both know he is.”
Definitely more to this scenario than meets the eye. Emily pulled a gold-plated pen out of her handbag, a graduation gift from her mother a dozen years ago. She twirled it between her fingers, remembering how proud her mom had been, her daughter the first one in the family to go beyond high school. Remembered the way her mother had looked the last time Emily saw her, shell-shocked and shattered.
“Where do I sign?”
2
Lount’s Landing appeared to be a town in transition. Nestled among the Victorian architecture and the freshly painted shops with cutesy names like “Book Worm” and “Second Hand Rose”—the former a bookstore, the latter a consignment clothing shop filled with vintage and designer fashions—there were telltale signs of more radical
change, starting with the “For Sale: Development Potential” real estate sign on an old elementary school at the foot of Main Street.
Emily’s first order of business was a meeting with Johnny Porter, owner of It’s a Colorful Life, chairman of the Main Street Merchants’ Association, and her key contact—not that he knew the real reason behind her move to Lount’s Landing. As far as Johnny was concerned, she was simply the new editor of Inside the Landing.
It’s a Colorful Life was a throwback in time, the sort of store you’d expect to find Jimmy Stewart wandering into in Bedford Falls. Plastic paint trays hung from the ceiling like oversized Christmas ornaments. Every wall surface was covered with clusters of paint chips, a kaleidoscope of reds and blues and golds and ochers, of greens and purples and pinks and whites. She wedged her way between aisles of metal bins overflowing with rollers and brushes and sandpaper and masking tape, dodging paint cans piled high into pyramids.
The faint scent of vanilla filled her nostrils. “Pure vanilla extract, the real stuff, not the imitation kind,” a man’s voice called from the back of the store. “Stir one tablespoon into a gallon of paint and you get rid of that new paint smell. I add it to every gallon I sell.” He came out into the open, held out his hand, and smiled. “Emily Garland, I presume.”
The main thing Emily noticed about Johnny Porter, beyond the fact he was roughly her age and drop-dead movie star gorgeous, were his eyes. Eyes so dark brown they looked black. Miner’s eyes, her old pals at boarding school would have called them, the kind of eyes that could dig their way into the depth of your soul. Emily made an effort to collect herself. Acting like an infatuated high school student was not the way to start off her new life in Lount’s Landing.
“And you must be Johnny Porter.” Emily shook his hand, noticing his grip was firm but gentle. Thought his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Johnny said, although Emily got the distinct feeling he was assessing her. She wondered if she made the grade.
“I wanted to thank you, Johnny, for all your efforts to make my transition from Toronto easier. Getting the office space ready, arranging for the house rental with Urban-Huntzberger, all your notes about the businesses and shops along Main Street. I can’t imagine what I would have done without you.”
“Nonsense,” Johnny said, waving aside her accolades. “That’s what we call good, old-fashioned small town hospitality. As chairman of the Main Street Merchants’ Association, I consider it part of my responsibilities. It’s in the Association’s best interests to have the editor of Inside the Landing championing our cause.”
“Thank you, anyway.”
“You’re welcome, anyway.” Johnny smiled. “So I take it the house is good? You’re the first renter. The owner, Camilla Mortimer-Gilroy, purchased it a few months ago, a bank foreclosure. It was in tough shape, and that’s putting a gloss on things. She had it renovated from top to bottom, paint, new countertops and cabinets in the kitchen and bath, refinished all the floors.”
“The living room walls are bit greener than I’d like, but it’s nothing I can’t live with. It’s just a short term rental.” Emily stopped. Day one and she had almost blown her cover. She would have to be more circumspect if she stood any chance of keeping her assignment a secret. “Then again, I may live there for quite some time. I’m hoping to save up some money and buy a fixer-upper of my own.” No need to mention the planned fixer-upper was in Toronto.
“Then there’s no reason to live with a paint color you don’t care for. I told Camilla not to go with Warm Winter Wheat. Sounds lovely and soft and golden, but it always looks green in a north facing light. Hay Bale would have been a much better choice for the room’s exposure. It would warm up the room completely.”
“Wow, you know a lot about color.”
“I should, owning a paint store,” Johnny said with a grin. “But the truth is color has always fascinated me. Did you know that in Victorian times, flowers were used as a way for men to communicate their feelings to the women they were courting? Social conventions restricted conversations for a variety of reasons, but sending flowers of a certain color or type allowed secretive messages to be sent. There were even floriography dictionaries.” Johnny laughed. “Listen to me, going on and on. What I’m trying to say is that people should enjoy their surroundings, and choosing the right paint color is one way of adding to that enjoyment.”
“You’ve sold me on the Hay Bale, though I should probably check with the owner first.”
“Don’t you worry about Camilla. We go way back. I was a friend of her late husband, Graham. I can still remember when Camilla moved to Lount’s Landing to become mistress of the Gilroy Mansion. Created quite a stir. Everyone had expected Graham to marry a woman with connections to the family and plenty of her own money.”
“I gather she had neither.”
“At least none that anyone was aware of. After Graham died, Camilla turned most of the mansion into a Bed and Breakfast. Created more talk, not that she had much of a choice. Graham liked to live large on the family legacy, and he didn’t have much in the way of insurance.”
“When did he die?” Always the journalist, a bit too pushy for her own good, but this time she needn’t have worried. It appeared Johnny liked nothing better than to talk. She made a mental note to be careful of what she said around him.
“He died about five years ago, snowmobiling accident. Rode out on the Dutch River before the ice was safe and sliced straight through. By the time anyone found him, it was already too late.”
“What a horrible way to die.”
“Doing what you love?” Johnny shook his head. “No, Graham would rather have died snowmobiling than doing anything else. He was always a risk taker. And he’d been riding on thin ice for years—quite literally, and in more ways than one. It was just a matter of time. I’ve often wondered if his death really was an accident.”
“But what about Camilla? She must have been devastated.”
“She was, although to be honest I was never quite sure what devastated her more, Graham’s death or the fact he left her penniless. They’d been married less than a couple of years, and I think Graham kept his financial affairs close to the vest. But Camilla’s got a keen business sense. She started out by fixing up one room and bath and renting it out. Five years later, she’s got one of the finest Bed and Breakfasts in this part of Ontario.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her. Camilla sounds like she’d be a great interview. Readers love those sorts of stories.”
“I’ve suggested as much to her, but she’s publicity shy. Says she had enough of the media hounding her after Graham died.”
Emily could understand that. Some reporters—like Kerri St. Amour—were positively ruthless. She would wait, be sure to try a gentler approach when the time was right.
“I’ll remember that when I call on her.”
“Someone you definitely want to interview is Arabella Carpenter.”
Emily thought back to the notes Johnny had provided. “The owner of the new antiques shop on Main Street?”
“The Glass Dolphin. The grand opening is this weekend.”
“What good timing. Covering the opening will give me some material for the publication. Plus it would be a great networking opportunity. I’m assuming other business owners will come by to support her.”
“They will—at least everyone who belongs to MSMA—but I have to warn you. Arabella’s an expert when it comes to antiques, and she’s a charming woman, but she can also be a tad irascible. Proceed with caution is all I’m saying. If she thinks you have an ulterior motive, you’re toast.”
An ulterior motive? What was Johnny hinting at? Surely he didn’t suspect…
“I don’t think networking is an ulterior motive, but thanks for the heads up.” Emily looked at her watch. It was getting late in the day, and she wanted to reread her notes about Arabella before heading over there. “I’ll pay Ara
bella a visit first thing tomorrow morning.”
“As long as you’re going there, can I ask you for a favor? Would you deliver this invitation to Arabella? It will save me the trip. Not to mention a confrontation.” He handed her two cream-colored envelopes. “There’s one for you, too.”
A confrontation? Interesting. “What’s it for?”
“A presentation about a proposed new development. I understand from your boss that you know the presenter. A man by the name of Garrett Stonehaven.”
Her boss, Michelle Ellis, had assured her their agreement was confidential, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that Johnny was testing her. She contemplated her options and decided to go for surprise.
“Stonehaven’s in Lount’s Landing? I’ve covered his condo developments in Urban Living for years. He never struck me as a small town kind of guy.”
“Consider this your opportunity to find out more.” Johnny smiled and Emily thought she detected a hint of relief in his eyes. “Oh, and one more word of warning.”
“Yes?”
“It would be best if you gave Arabella the invitation as you were leaving.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say Arabella has been more than vocal about her vision of what’s right for Main Street. And I don’t think Garrett Stonehaven’s plans play any part of it.”
3
The alarm clock radio came on at exactly seven a.m., the sounds of Hey Joe filling the room. Arabella Carpenter pushed the snooze button, not just for the extra ten minutes of sleep it might afford her, but to drown out the music. She mostly loved the Classic Rock Q107 played, but she had never understood the appeal of Hendrix. Especially at seven a.m. on a Tuesday.
Arabella dragged herself up and into the shower before the allotted ten minutes were up, knowing she had a busy week ahead. Saturday was the grand opening of The Glass Dolphin, her new antiques shop on Main Street.
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