“Look Edwards, I’m a busy man—I don’t have six months to waste on this business. I simply want to know if my wife is being faithful.”
It would have helped if he asked to prove his wife unfaithful—that I’d gladly try to prove.
The fact was, I didn’t like Wilde Prescott—I didn’t like his looks, his attitude or his taste in houses. I hated the ostentatious study we were sitting in.
Still, as much as I disliked the man, I had to admit I did know what it feels like to be lied to and betrayed. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t hold his house or looks against him, but his attitude had me incensed.
As far as I was concerned, another P.I. could take the case.
“Arabella’s indiscreet,” he said out of the blue, “she has no sense of decorum.”
My ears pricked up.
I hate that trait in me, but when something weird happens, I’m like a tracker dog attuned to a strange sound, and to be frank, I love a good hunt.
I looked more closely at the man sitting across the desk from me. I began noting the unconscious messages of betrayal he was telegraphing unconsciously.
He chatters with his fingertips, I mused. He might as well be texting a confession.
“Is something wrong?” he asked impatiently.
“No, Mr. Prescott,” I replied. “Actually, I’ve decided to take your case.”
“Excellent,” he hissed, yellow-veined eyes gleaming.
“I’ll need a photo of your wife, a list of her friends and the names of the typical places she frequents.”
“You’ll find everything you need in here,” he smiled, handing me over a gunmetal blue legal-sized file folder.
I arched an eyebrow.
“I anticipated your needs,” he offered as explanation.
“Is your wife employed, Mr. Prescott?”
“She is,” he said disdainfully. “She busies herself as an antiques purchaser for Llewellyn and Child’s Curator’s Den.”
“It’s a beautiful high-end store on Avenue Road.”
“Yes, yes…I’ve heard all about it from Arabella—but, as you can see,” and he gestured round the garish room, “my taste is more minimalist and contemporary.”
Personally, I thought his taste was pathetic, but merely smiled in acknowledgment.
“I’ll be in touch, when I have something to report, Mr. Prescott.”
He stood and shook my hand. “Very well, but remember—time is of the essence.”
A six million dollar renovated house in the Annex district of Toronto had failed to impress. The man himself was totally nondescript—but a one-sentence reference to his wife—now, that had me intrigued.
It took a week of painstaking surveillance, but gradually a pattern began to emerge—Arabella Prescott was definitely behaving suspiciously.
Two or three times a week, she’d drive her Porsche from the downtown core up to the Bridle Path—to an exclusive enclave of multi-million dollar estate homes commonly referred to as Millionaire’s Row.
She’d park in the circular drive of one particular mansion and spend the entire day.
I made some enquiries and that’s where the hunt got interesting—the mansion Arabella frequented, several times a week, was the Carson estate home—formerly owned by Richard Carson, a whiskey distiller who died intestate.
His entire estate, including the house, had been tied up in legal wrangling for over five years. Officially, nobody lived there.
But apparently, somebody did and I intended to find out who the person was.
