Harry had no filter. Throughout his life he’d always said precisely what was on his mind. Too bad if people got offended. Words were tools to get a job done. He never minced them. He said what he meant, and he meant what he said. Yet, he had a charm about him, and if one could look past his gruff exterior, then his humanity would emerge, and, quite possibly, one could understand what it was that made Harrison Dalton tick. Still, those who knew him well, knew also that he was two-faced. He used his words to manipulate and he was good at it.
Meeting Anne Lonsdale, a cyclonic romance and a private wedding, had changed his life. Harry Dalton had taken a ride on the carousel of love and snatched the brass ring. A brass ring that, to his amazement, was inlaid with a solid gold bank account. Harry had married into money and lots of it.
With Anne’s money backing him, he was more at ease. There was a spring in his step, and even the employees thought he looked taller as Harry strode around in his black leather vest and suspenders; his thumbs hooked into them as if he owned the place, which of course he did. Things were different now. Now he didn’t have to play the part of Mr. Congeniality.
Harry was finally free to do things his way. Anne’s money gave him the power he’d craved, and now employees were easy to control. The euphoria he felt when he dangled money in front of them was unequalled. He loved that he could enhance someone’s life by adding to their pay-packet or devastate that life by firing them.
It was a freedom short-lived. A series of bad deals placed the company in financial peril, a dilemma he dared not divulge to Anne. But Harry had a plan. He had tasted the power he craved, and this time he would win. Money was power, and Harry Dalton fed on it like a fly on shit.
The changing of the seasons meant renewal and new beginnings, and as he guided his new Caddy onto the highway, Harry reflected on the changes he was about to make.
When the local tire manufacturer had decided to close the Clarksville plant and lay off hundreds of workers, all the townsfolk could see was gloom and doom. Harry had smelled an opportunity and with a little bit of grit and what some would call ‘titanium balls,’ he had secured a contract to produce the same brand-name tires. The manufacturer, happy to be rid of labour disputes and local politics, agreed to the sale on the condition that Harry could guarantee on-time delivery.
He’d pulled it off and instead of massive layoffs, he had devised a plan whereby the employees became shareholders in the corporation. Dalton Tire & Rubber had prospered. The employee-partners in the company had prospered also, receiving thousands in annual dividends. Many of the original partners had retired with huge bonuses and healthy pensions, leaving room for the new generation of employees to share in the employee stock pool.
He’d devoted his life to this business and although some would say he was ruthless, the partnership had been a good one. He’d spent many long and arduous hours making sure that everything ran smoothly, and now it was time for his reward. He’d stepped on a lot of toes to get where he was, and he was about to step on a lot more.
At sixty-eight he was ready to retire, but not before he made one more big deal. Ahead, a ribbon of taillights snaked its way west along the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway, more commonly known as the 401. The golden glow of the setting sun hung just above the horizon, painting the mere wisps of clouds with a golden orange sheen as they merged into the blue-grey darkness of the clear autumn twilight. He was ready and if all went well, the trip to Toronto would take just over two hours.
Through his rear-view mirror, he watched Clarksville fade in the distance. He was in a game he knew was as dangerous as any war and if even a whiff of his plan was to leak, life, as he knew it, would end. Still, there was no way to be certain. To accomplish his goal, he had to trust the other side. It was a risk he had to take.
* * *
A pang of guilt swept over Emily James as she contemplated her garden. The weed-ridden flowerbeds had fallen dormant due to an early frost, and a large empty patch, near the gate, remained unplanted.
It wasn’t her fault. She’d found an old leather purse buried in that spot. How it got there was a mystery. Turning the purse in at the police station should have allowed her to return to her chores, but meeting Detective Sergeant Colm O’Byrne changed all that. He had scrambled past a female constable almost knocking her down as he butted in front to serve Emily. His suit jacket hung open revealing a light blue dress shirt and black tie. The shirt was tight on his torso. A button had popped open, revealing a tiny tuft of chest hair as he leaned against the counter. When he spoke, she melted. His heavy Irish accent and the twinkle in his light blue eyes captured her and had never let go. And now they were a couple. Ignoring orders to “let it drop,” they had solved the mystery of the leather purse. The owner, Kallita Prewitt, missing for twenty-five years and thought dead, had somehow resurrected and died again. But not before leaving a trail of murder in her wake.
With that behind the young couple, Emily now looked to their future, and as she surveyed her domain, she watched as a chipmunk rummaged through the leaves that had fallen from the maple tree at the back of her yard. Emily smiled at the small bundle of brown fluff bounding back and forth, making its way toward her. She knew what he wanted, and the small voice inside her chided her for failing to pick up a bag of peanuts.
She’d neglected her garden and her small family of furry friends. It was October, and snowy weather was just around the corner. The flower beds could keep until spring, but Mr. Chips couldn’t. She would buy a large bag of peanuts today.
* * *
From the thirty-second floor of Toronto’s Commerce Court building, Angelo Pellini gazed into the darkening sky of eastern Ontario. Sitting in the soft, yellow glow of a desk lamp, Angelo contemplated his hands. The callouses had almost vanished, but the scars remained, a constant reminder that flesh and machinery rarely got along. He flexed his fingers tightening them, repeatedly balling them into fists, loosening the joints to relieve his arthritis. Angelo was not a stranger to hard work, yet, at forty, the pain in his hands had become a dogged companion, reminding him daily of his roots. As he looked down at them, he marvelled that he no longer needed to use the tools. He had new tools now, and they did not require hard hands, at least not his.
His fingers drummed the desk beside the telephone as he considered his next move. It was a game of strategy, and he held the strongest pieces.
He was a solitary man, impeccably groomed with short, predominantly black hair, peppered with hints of grey and a close-cropped beard, that through some magic of genetics, bloomed forth with a tinge of red. His deep brown eyes were serious but friendly and his words, though velvet to the ear, held the hardness of steel tempered in the forge of experience.
Angelo had played well, maneuvering the pieces into place. The beauty of it was the ease with which he’d done it and the sheer surprise his opponent would feel when the coup de grâce finally came. As the sky darkened, he lifted the phone and made the call. From here he could almost see his future.
* * *
Kill Her Twice Page 23
