“The Reformers?” Emily asked, hoping to avoid an argument between the exes.
“It was a political party determined to derail a capitalist market economy, something the Reformers blamed for impoverishing farms and families while landowners prospered,” Levon said. “Lount ran for Assembly in 1834, and won handily.”
“I’m not seeing the problem,” Emily said.
“Everything changed in 1836, when Francis Bond Head led the Conservatives to an overwhelming victory,” Arabella said. “Bond Head’s platform was ‘loyalty to the crown and bread and butter on the table.’ The Reformers, including Lount and William Lyon Mackenzie, were crushed in defeat. There were all sorts of unethical practices at the polls, including intimidation for any man daring to vote Reformer. Mackenzie and Lount started to question whether democratic change was possible within the existing political system. They, along with several other disillusioned Reformers, planned a rebellion to literally throw Bond Head and his Conservatives out of power.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t end well,” Emily said.
“You could say that. Lount was hanged for treason. Lount is reported to have said, ‘We die in a good cause, Canada will yet be free,’ as he passed fellow prisoners on the way to the scaffold.”
“It sounds fascinating,” Emily said. “I’m a bit embarrassed I don’t know about the area’s history. Canada’s history, come to that. Outside of World War I and II, all I remember learning about is the War of 1812.”
Arabella grinned. “I’m quite sure Betsy would be happy to fill you in on all the sordid details of Samuel Lount and his failed rebellion, if you’re a willing candidate.”
“Warning, warning, danger, danger,” Levon said, chuckling. “Be prepared for a lecture on everything you never wanted to know about Samuel Lount and were too smart to ask.”
Shuggie laughed. “I made that mistake, once. It was innocent enough. All I asked was why Betsy decided to name this place The Hanged Man’s Noose. I was a couple of beers in, so I was able to sort of glaze over most of the details.”
“You guys are bad,” Emily said, but she found herself laughing, too.
“Speaking of drinks,” Levon said. “I’m going to sidle my way up to the bar and get myself a Sleeman Honey Brown. Does anyone else want anything? Another Treasontini? A glass of wine?”
“I’ll come with you,” Shuggie said. “I need to stretch my legs. Too much sitting.”
“Chardonnay, and ask Betsy for a generous pour,” Arabella said.
“I kinda like the Treasontini,” Emily said. “I’ll have another one of those. And more of these appetizers, if you can snag some of those, Levon.”
“Yeah, those brie and cranberry puff pastry thingies are to die for,” Arabella said. “Definitely more of those.”
“One chardonnay, one Treasontini, one platter of appetizers, heavy on the brie and cranberry puff pastry thingies,” Levon said. “We’re on it.”
Emily watched as the two men ambled over to the bar, Levon stopping at the occasional table to offer a quick smile and a short chat. She glanced over at Arabella and saw the antiques shop owner was also watching him work the room, a look of admiration on her face. Divorced or not, there was definitely still chemistry between those two, feelings that went beyond friendship, even if they were both too stubborn to admit it.
“Totally like Stonehaven to make a grand entrance, he always has to be the center of attention,” Emily whispered to Arabella. They’d been in the pub coming on forty-five minutes and the developer still hadn’t turned up. “If he’s true to form, he’ll pop in for a quick minute, make a toast, and be on his way.”
“I’d like to know who is on his team. Gloria’s apparently on it, and my guess is so are Chantal and Ned. They’re always together, and they’re sitting with Gloria.”
“I think you’re right. I can also make an educated guess. Carter Dixon. If I know Stonehaven, he’ll want to own the property next to the school. What better way to convince Gloria and Carter to sell their apartment building than to bring them onto his team?”
“Carter Dixon?” Arabella’s face turned pale. “And now he’s dead. You don’t think Stonehaven is responsible?”
“All I know is those who cross Stonehaven tend to come to harm’s way,” Emily said, thinking of her own mother, the way she publicly battled him when it came to CondoHaven on the Park. “Levon was right, Arabella. You must be more cautious in what you say to him.”
“What about February? Surely she didn’t cross Stonehaven.”
“I’m still mulling that one over,” Emily said, “but I do have a theory.”
“I have a theory too, about Stonehaven’s plan. But I have to run it by Levon first.”
“You have to run your theory by Levon first? Seriously?”
“Not the theory, but the reason for having the theory. It stems from something Levon told me in confidence. It wouldn’t be right to share that with you unless he was okay with it.”
“You think he will be?”
“I think so, if it means stopping Stonehaven. In the meantime, what do you think about Johnny Porter?”
“I think his role is strictly in the interest of the Main Street Merchants’ Association.” Emily sipped her Treasontini. “I could be swayed by the fact I find him drop-dead gorgeous and utterly charming. He brought me roses, you know. Lavender ones.”
“Lavender roses, eh? You could do a lot worse, and it would be nice to see Johnny settled down and happy. Outside of a casual date here and there, he’s never shown much interest in anyone.”
“They were roses, Arabella, not an engagement ring. He hasn’t even asked me on a date yet.” Emily didn’t think a breakfast meeting at the Sunrise Café counted. She looked at her watch. “Look, Stonehaven is nothing if not predictable. He always waits about an hour before coming to one of these post-presentation parties. I should go before he shows up and sees us together. We don’t want him to think you’re making an appointment as anything but an interested and apologetic business owner.”
“Apologetic?” Arabella wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I suppose I can do apologetic if it means getting some answers. Tomorrow we’ll both make appointments, and I’ll be sure to ask Levon about telling his story. Let’s get together at some point to compare notes.”
“I have an appointment tomorrow morning,” Emily said, trying not to blush, and not quite succeeding. “I’ll make an appointment with Stonehaven when I get back to my office, call you once it’s all said and done.”
“Fair enough.”
“And Arabella, when Stonehaven comes in, please try to play nice. For our plan to work, he has to believe you’re sincere.” She got up before Arabella could argue, walking out of the pub as Stonehaven walked in.
22
Stonehaven’s entrance was met with a round of applause orchestrated by Betsy, and it gradually filtered through the room as people stood up, cheering and clapping. He started making his way around the pub, shaking hands and chatting amiably about little bits of nothing. Every now and again, he’d glance over at Betsy and give her wink and a smile, and she’d smile back with a look that was part conspiratorial and part minx.
Definitely sleeping together, Arabella thought, acknowledging Stonehaven’s presence with a glacial stare.
Instead of putting him off, Stonehaven seemed to take it as an invitation, pulling up a seat at her table. Play nice, Emily had said. Did playing nice mean she actually had to be nice? Before either of them had a chance to speak, Betsy was over at their table, a large wine glass and a bottle of Châteauneuf-Du-Pape in her hands.
“This one’s on the house, Garrett,” Betsy said.
“Thank you, Betsy, but please, don’t pour it for me now. I’d much rather take it to my room at the Gilroy Mansion, where I can enjoy it in solitude.” He grinned. “Or possibly with some company later on.”
“I’m afraid alcoholic beverages have to be consumed on the premises,” Betsy said, blushing. “Liquor Contro
l Board regulations.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” Another wink.
“Don’t be an ass, Stonehaven,” Arabella said. “Betsy could lose her license.”
“That’s true, Garrett, I could. In any case, I arranged with Camilla to have a bottle open and breathing in your room.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
Betsy smiled and shrugged, somehow managing to make the gesture seem seductive. “So you’ll stay, have a glass of wine?”
Stonehaven nodded. “I will.”
“I’ve got an idea, Betsy,” Arabella said. “Why don’t you make up a batch of Treasontinis for a toast?”
“That’s a great idea,” Betsy said, and practically sprinted to the bar.
“I have to say, I’m more than a bit surprised at the gesture, Arabella,” Stonehaven said. “I had the distinct impression you don’t care for me.”
“It is your money, after all, Garrett.” Arabella smiled sweetly. “And, seriously, I can’t think of a more appropriate drink to toast you or your presentation.”
“You mock me. I find that entertaining. But I’m not a traitor, no matter what you or your new friend Emily might think.”
“Neither, according to history, was Samuel Lount. Yet he was hanged all the same. Tried and convicted by a jury of his peers.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Merely an observation. Folks here have a way of pulling together.”
“So do people who want to make money, Arabella.”
Arabella was still thinking of a witty retort when the wait staff began delivering trays of Treasontinis around the bar. She was deciding between “What about those of us who want to keep our money?” and “What about those of us who want to keep your hands out of our pockets?” when Betsy started chanting, “Here, here, toast, toast.” Before long the room was chanting with her. The moment for a witty retort had passed.
Stonehaven stood up, bowed to the room in general, picked up his glass of red wine, and turned to face the five people sitting at the bar. Arabella took note of who was sitting there: Gloria, Poppy, Levon, Camilla, and Johnny, each one smiling, each one holding a Treasontini. Betsy stood behind the bar, her face radiating happiness.
“Before I begin my toast, I’d like to thank Betsy Ehrlich for putting on a tremendous post-presentation party,” Stonehaven said.
The announcement was met with boisterous cheers.
“And now for my toast, let me begin with a quote from Samuel Lount. ‘Be of good courage boys, I am not ashamed of anything I have done, I trust in God and I am going to die like a man.’” Stonehaven raised his glass to the people standing at the bar.
He may have been ready to say something else, but Arabella wasn’t about to wait to hear it. She saw the confusion on the faces of the people all around her. Not ashamed of anything he’d done. Die like a man? What the hell? He didn’t have any right to ruin Betsy’s party, even if he was sleeping with her. Even if he was the one paying for it. She stood up and faced Stonehaven.
“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Stonehaven, you just may get it.” Arabella picked up her Treasontini and held it up high. “Come on everybody. Let’s all drink to the newest traitor in our town.” She downed her drink in one fell swoop. By the time she put her glass down, Garrett Stonehaven had left the building.
23
In the cold, cruel light of morning, Arabella’s witty toast to Stonehaven the night before seemed a lot less clever. How was she ever going to gain the man’s trust if she did nothing but antagonize him? Not to mention that Betsy had been beyond furious, confronting Arabella after Stonehaven had stormed out of the pub with his bottle of red wine.
“For God’s sake, Arabella, Garrett was reciting the last words of Samuel Lount,” Betsy had said, her face flushed a violent shade of crimson. “He had a whole speech planned. He rehearsed it with me so I’d be ready. It was all about how we didn’t have to die for our freedom today, but that it still took a person with real courage to start a venture like The Hanged Man’s Noose. He was going to say how proud he was to be associated with someone like me, someone who respected history but was still willing to embrace the future. How others could learn from me by investing in StoreHaven. And you had to butt in with your stupid toast and ruin everything.”
Arabella had apologized profusely, but Betsy wasn’t having any. Levon looked embarrassed, not that it had anything to do with him. Arabella had slunk out of the pub and made her way home, sobered by the crisp night air and the possibility she’d ruined a longstanding friendship.
Thank heavens Emily hadn’t been around to see her in action, though she knew it was just a matter of time until word spread. Betsy would be sure to tell anyone who asked how Arabella had taunted the generous developer who had paid for the party. As much as the thought made her skin crawl, there was only one viable solution. She had to go to the Gilroy Mansion, swallow her pride, and apologize to Garrett Stonehaven.
Arabella arrived at the Gilroy Mansion a few minutes before ten. Thankfully Garrett’s black Lexus was in the parking lot, which meant he was at the Mansion, no doubt preparing for his appointments with investors.
She timed her visit knowing Camilla would be out for her Wednesday morning yoga class at Chantal’s studio. It was bad enough she had to face Stonehaven. Having to face Camilla would have been too much to take.
It wasn’t as though Arabella was privy to Camilla’s comings and goings. Everyone in town knew about Camilla’s commitment to her Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning yoga classes. She’d been a devotee to the discipline since Graham had died.
“Yoga and meditation got me through the dark times,” Camilla would say to anyone who cared to listen. Not that many did, at least in Arabella’s humble opinion. The cynic in Arabella also wondered how long and how dark those times had been, given the speedy renovation of the Gilroy Mansion into a Bed and Breakfast, but she managed to hold her tongue. There had been more than enough gossip going around after Levon had “temporarily” moved out of their house and into the B and B for “some space.”
The Gilroy Mansion was an old Victorian row house that had, in more prosperous times, been converted into one large home. Following Graham’s death, Camilla had restored and re-divided the home back into three wings: a central wing of generous proportions, where Camilla lived, an east wing which housed one upper story and one main floor luxury suite, each with private bed, bath, and kitchenette, and a west wing which housed an opulent two-story suite, with a master en suite, walk-in closet, and full kitchen.
Stonehaven had taken up residence in the west wing. Levon had told her it was filled with fine furniture, art, and antiques. If he had helped Camilla with her selection, he’d been wise enough not to mention it to Arabella. Nonetheless, she gathered that Camilla had spared no expense. Mind you, given the prices she charged, her guests would expect nothing less.
Arabella made her way to a gleaming red front door marked “West Mansion” and lifted the heavy brass knocker, once, twice. No answer. Tried again. Once, twice. Still no answer. She tried to sneak a peek in the window, but the blinds were still drawn. Surely a man like Garrett Stonehaven wouldn’t still be asleep at this time of morning? She was ready to give up when, on the off chance of getting lucky, she decided to try the door.
It was unlocked. Arabella slipped into the foyer and closed the door behind her, starting at the sound of the latch clicking into place. “Mr. Stonehaven? Are you home?”
No answer. She surveyed the formal living room, her eyes flicking from corner to corner. A broad, high-backed wing chair had been placed in front of a cast iron fireplace, the blackened embers showing no signs of life. A small wooden table stood next to it. It held a Tiffany-style reading lamp—a Made in China special—a half-empty glass of red wine, a prescription bottle, and a file folder. She caught a glimpse of Stonehaven’s shoulder and swallowed hard.
Pills and booze. Had he passed out?
“Garrett?”
Su
re that the pounding of her heart could be heard three blocks away.
Sure that he was going to wake up, turn around, and blast her into next week.
Except he didn’t wake up.
He didn’t turn around.
He didn’t hear her heart pounding.
Because Garrett Stonehaven wasn’t passed out in his chair. He was blue and rigid and sightless.
And very much dead.
24
Emily arrived at the Sunrise Café on Wednesday morning a few minutes early, despite having changed her outfit a half dozen times. She eventually decided on casual but stylish. Blue jeans, brown suede boots, and a moss green wool sweater. She grabbed the first available table for two and settled in to wait. She didn’t have to wait long.
“You got the memo,” Johnny said, laughing. He took off a dark blue, down-filled jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He was also wearing jeans and a moss green wool sweater.
“Great minds think alike.”
“They do indeed. Sorry to keep you waiting. Have you ordered?”
“Not yet, and there’s no need to apologize. I’ve been here less than a minute.”
The new waitress shuffled over, a tall, angular woman, mid-to-late forties, with tired eyes, wide hips, and short, mousy brown hair bereft of any particular style. Emily remembered February, so young, so pale, so blonde, so different from this woman. She’d heard from Nigel that the police were ruling the girl’s death as an accident, not that she knew where Nigel had gotten his information
The syringe in the wrong hand still nagged at her, as did Michelle’s assertion that she had no idea February was a druggie. Surely a serious drug addiction would be hard to hide. Emily wondered if there was a way to get the autopsy report, knew it was a long shot. But maybe if she approached Detective Merryfield—
“What’ll it be, folks?” The waitress interrupted her thoughts. “The special today is a toasted Western, home fries, and coffee or tea.”
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