William Bell - Fanatics

“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 investigated ?” I blurted. “Who do you think-?”

“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.

I KEPT MY ENTHUSIASM reined in as I looked the coach house over from the inside. There were three overhead garage doors at the front, with a standard entrance on the side facing the main house. Big windows on three walls provided lots of natural light to supplement the overhead fixtures. The concrete floor looked recently painted and was as clean as a dinner plate. The building was fully insulated, and there were electrical outlets spaced every two metres or so along the walls. The power supply-unusual for a garage-looked adequate for my needs.

When I returned to the kitchen Mrs. Stoppini was at the sink rinsing the tea cups.

“Will it suit, do you think?” she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

“It’s perfect,” I was tempted to say. But I settled for “I think it might.”

“Very well. Shall we sit down again and discuss the details?”

Like an awkward kid assembling a difficult Lego figure, Mrs. Stoppini made what she probably thought was a smile.

“Mr. Havelock, I very much hope that you will permit me to describe my proposal in full before you respond,” she began, with her precise enunciation.

“Okay.”

“Splendid. The enquiries I made of my lawyer yielded certain information which I found very much to my satisfaction, and which allowed me to hope you could be of considerable assistance to me and to the late Professor Corbizzi.” She cleared her throat. “I am prepared to lease the coach house to you, exclusively, for a period of three years, for the sum of one dollar.”

“One d-”

She held up a bony hand, palm toward me. “If you please, Mr. Havelock. There is more.”

I recalled Marco Grenoble’s warning: with the Corbizzis there are always strings attached.

Mrs. Stoppini rolled on. “I must share certain information that I will rely upon you to treat with the utmost confidence.”

Meaning, don’t tell anybody. I nodded.

“Indeed, as the late Professor Corbizzi was, and I remain, an extremely private person, everything I am about to tell you must remain confidential. I have been his housekeeper and companion for the past twenty years, first in Italy and then, for a decade or more, here. Professor Corbizzi was a Renaissance scholar, specializing in Tuscan history. He published several books and many articles. He was always devoted to his studies, but toward the end he became more reclusive, even secretive, spending most of his day behind the closed doors of his library. He passed away suddenly-this is, of course, common knowledge. What is not well known is that there was… an incident that immediately preceded his death. An accident. A small fire. These details are my affair, and mine alone.”