‘I had my reasons.’ She felt a flash of anger at him for questioning her judgment.

She’d waited five years to buy a place in Three Pines. CC de Poitiers could be patient if she had to, and if she had a good enough reason.

She’d visited the crummy little village many times, networking with local real estate agents and even talking to shop clerks in nearby St-Rémy and Williamsburg. It had taken years. Apparently homes didn’t often come up in Three Pines.

Then a little over a year ago she’d had a call from a real estate agent named Yolande Fontaine. There was a home. A great Victorian Grande Dame on the hill overlooking the village. The mill owner’s home. The boss’s home.

‘How much?’ CC had asked, knowing it was almost certainly beyond her. She’d have to borrow against the company, mortgage everything she owned, get her husband to cash in his insurance policy and his RRSP.

But the real estate agent’s answer had surprised her. It was well below market value.

‘There is one little thing,’ Yolande had explained in a cloying voice.

‘Go on.’

‘There was a murder there. And an attempted murder.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Well, I guess, technically, there was also a kidnapping. Anyway, that’s why the house is so cheap. Still, it’s a great buy. Terrific pipes, mostly copper. The roof is only twenty years old. The—’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Don’t you want to see it?’ As soon as the question was out Yolande could have kicked herself. If this moron wanted to buy the old Hadley house sight unseen, without inspection or exorcism, then let her.

‘Just draw up the papers. I’ll be down this afternoon with a cheque.’

And so she had. She’d told her husband a week or so later, when she’d needed his signature to cash in the RRSP. He’d protested, but so feebly it would have been impossible for a casual observer to even recognize it as a protest.

The old Hadley house, the monstrosity on the hill, was hers. She couldn’t have been happier. It was perfect. Three Pines was perfect. Or at least it would be, by the time she was finished with it.

Saul snorted and turned away. He could see the writing on the wall. He’d be dumped by CC as soon as the next photo assignment of her in that dreadful hick village was complete. It was for her first catalogue and he’d been told to get pictures of her frolicking among the natives at Christmas. If possible he had to get shots of the locals looking at CC with wonder and affection. He’d need cash for that.

Everything CC did had a purpose. And that purpose came down to two things, he figured: it fed her wallet or her ego.