Chapter 5 - The Ghost of Arthur Arden
-5-
The transition from a domestic family court dispute into a high-profile criminal investigation happened with the velocity of a freight train.
By Tuesday afternoon, the media outlets across Toronto had picked up the story. News vans crowded the perimeter of the Bridle Path estate, their satellite dishes pointed like metallic cannons toward the sprawling mansion where Margaret Arden was reportedly holed up with a battery of high-priced defense lawyers. The headline on the front page of the Toronto Star digital edition flashed across thousands of smartphones simultaneously:
BRIDLE PATH DYNASTY UNDER SIEGE: Arden Estate Re-opened in 1998 Homicide Investigation.
I sat in Marisol’s high-rise office overlooking Lake Ontario, watching the news coverage unfold on a wall-mounted flat-screen television while sipping herbal tea. Maisie was playing happily in the corner playpen Marisol had thoughtfully set up, building towers out of wooden blocks, completely insulated from the chaos swirling around our family name.
The door to the office swung open, and Marisol strode in, dropping a thick red binder onto the conference table with a heavy thud.
“Judge Halloway didn't waste any time,” Marisol said, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from me. “The exhumation team pulled Arthur Arden’s remains from St. Michael’s Cemetery at dawn this morning under heavy judicial escort. The tissue samples are already at the provincial forensic pathology lab in downtown Toronto. If the embalming preservation holds up the way our toxicology experts predict, we’ll have definitive, unassailable proof of digitalis poisoning within forty-eight hours.”
“And Margaret?” I asked calmly, not taking my eyes off the television screen where a reporter was interviewing a retired Bridle Path neighbor about Margaret’s notoriously controlling behavior.
“She’s panicking,” Marisol smiled thinly. “Her legal team filed three separate injunctions to block the exhumation, all of which Halloway threw out before his morning coffee. Furthermore, the corporate audit we triggered on Arden Holdings has revealed that Margaret didn't just inherit Arthur’s estate—she systematically looted his personal accounts, falsified his signature on corporate transfer deeds three days after his declared time of death, and paid off the original attending physician with a lump sum of four hundred thousand dollars routed through a shell company in the Bahamas.”
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands in my lap. “What about Evan? How is he reacting to all of this?”
Marisol’s expression darkened slightly. “That’s the most interesting part, Clara. Evan isn't just defending his mother anymore. He’s terrified. Not because he loves her, but because his name is on three of the shell company accounts used to launder the original inheritance funds. He didn't just inherit the luxury; he inherited the conspiracy.”
My phone buzzed on the table. I looked down at the screen.
It was an incoming call from an unsaved number, but the area code and prefix matched Evan’s personal cell phone.
I let it ring three times before swiping to accept and putting it on speakerphone, nodding to Marisol to start the call-recording app on her tablet.
“Clara,” Evan’s voice came through the speaker, breathless, trembling, and entirely stripped of its arrogant veneer. “Clara, please. You have to call off Marisol. You have to drop the criminal referrals.”
“Drop them, Evan?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Why would I do that? Your mother assaulted our two-year-old daughter, and you tried to take custody of Maisie to protect your family’s reputation.”
“You don't understand!” he sobbed, the sound pathetic and ragged. “If this goes to trial—if they exhume my father and find what you’re saying they’ll find—we’re all finished! Not just Mom. Me! The company, the accounts, the house, everything! I’ll go to prison for ten years for wire fraud and conspiracy!”
“Then you should have thought about that before you helped your mother cover up a murder,” I replied coldly. “And you certainly should have thought about it before you let her lay a hand on our child.”
“Clara, please! Let’s meet,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. “Just the two of us. Tonight. At the old boathouse by the Scarborough Bluffs. No lawyers, no police, just... let’s figure out a way to fix this together. I can sign over the house to you. I can give you full custody. Anything you want, just... stop the investigation.”
I stared at the phone for a long, silent moment.
The Scarborough Bluffs boathouse. Isolated, dark, and far away from any security cameras or witnesses. Exactly the kind of place a desperate man cornered by his own crimes would choose for a final, dangerous gamble.
“Alright, Evan,” I said smoothly. “Tonight at nine. Just the two of us.”
I hung up before he could answer.
May you like
Marisol stared at me across the table, her eyes wide with alarm. “Clara, are you out of your mind? That’s a trap. He’s desperate, and Margaret is pulling his strings. You cannot go meet him alone at the Bluffs at night.”
“I’m not going alone, Marisol,” I said, standing up and buttoning my coat. “I’m bringing the entire Toronto Police Department special investigations unit with us.”
