Chapter 12

 

Patrick’s taxi collected Carol early Tuesday morning. She hadn’t slept well, between anticipating today and dissecting last evening with Joey. Why did he have to go digging for information?

Most people who knew about Harry either pulled back from her or tried to pump for gory details. Joey really seemed more concerned about her. So had the two-faced reporter in Calgary.

Carol squirmed against the taxi’s upholstery, inventorying the boxes again in her head. Patrick’s insistence on providing transportation rankled. Her little Toyota had a few dents and scrapes, but it got the job done. Even if it wasn’t as fancy as most of the vehicles in his elite subdivision.

Maybe the taxi sprang from some misguided form of chivalry. Oh, well. With what he was paying for this catering job, she could put up with a few quirks.

The cabbie pulled into Patrick’s driveway and popped the trunk. He took the heavier box and followed her to the door.

Patrick let them in, immaculate as ever in a charcoal suit and periwinkle silk shirt. After paying the driver, Patrick hefted the second box and led the way to the kitchen. “It’s a beautiful morning. You’ll have the sun in the kitchen.”

And the oven. Good thing she’d chosen short sleeves. Carol set her box on the counter and surveyed the gleaming room. “This will be a great place to work.”

Patrick spread his hands. “As I said, I’m glad to see it get more use. If there’s anything you can’t find, you may need to search. There’s no logic to how my chef stores my gadgets.”

“Is your cat around?”

Patrick avoided her eyes. “It’s hard to view something that independent as mine. She’s shut in the bedroom.”

He slid a business card from his wallet and placed it on the counter.” I have a meeting in the area, and I’ll come back here before I go the office. If anything urgent occurs, my secretary can reach me. I’ll see you later.”

“Have a good day.”

Carol busied herself setting out recipes and ingredients. When she heard the front door close she stopped and drew a breath. “This should be fun.”

She donned her apron and scanned the kitchen. Patrick had everything else. There must be a radio or mini television here somewhere. She spotted a slim, under-cabinet console and tuned it to Joey’s station. He’d be home now, or out for a morning run, but she liked their daytime line-up.

Patrick returned around eleven. Cheesecakes and chocolate cake layers rested on cooling racks, and Carol was ready to assemble the Black Forest. He stepped into the kitchen and surveyed the work in progress. “Everything looks wonderful, and it smells even better.”

Carol smiled at him. “Thanks. This kitchen is a dream.”

“Would I be intruding to make coffee?”

“Of course not. Is the radio okay?”

Patrick gave her an absent glance. “It’s fine, and quieter than I usually hear. I often close the door. It’s a small price for good food.”

He filled a small kettle and plugged it into an outlet at the far end of the counter from where Carol stood measuring whipping cream into a bowl. As she added sugar and vanilla, Patrick pulled a bag from the freezer and poured coffee beans into a grinder.

When the whirring clatter died, Carol asked, “What time is your gathering tonight?” The rich aroma of fresh-ground coffee danced in her nostrils.

“Eight.” Patrick spooned coffee into a mid-sized French press.

“I’ll help you set up before I go.” Really, he was paying too much for straight baking.

Patrick smiled. “Thank you.” He poured boiling water into the press, stirred it and set the cover in place. “I’ll be back for my coffee shortly.”

After he left, Carol closed the kitchen door before starting to whip the cream. She was ringing the bottom cake layer with a chocolate icing dam when the door opened and Patrick returned.

He’d traded his shoes for suede slippers and removed his suit jacket. He still wore his tie.

Carol focused on sprinkling kirsch on the cake and mounding cherry filling behind the dam. This was how he unwound? She’d stick with leggings and oversized sweatshirts.

Patrick took a clean china mug out of the cupboard and filled it with coffee before settling at one of the high stools at the central island. “I’ve never seen this done before. You don’t mind if I watch?”

“Not at all.” Carol placed the second cake layer gently atop the first and built its chocolate rim, then sprinkled more kirsch and piled the remaining cherries in the centre.

As she swirled whipped cream around the sides of the cake, Patrick said, “Would you join me for lunch when you’re finished? Chinese, perhaps?”

Carol’s grip tightened on the spatula, remembering Joey’s warning. “No, thank you. I arranged to be late, but my boss still expects me at the café.”

Patrick raised his left hand, long fingers extended to display his wedding ring. “I wasn’t making advances. I’ve lost my wife, but I’m still honouring her memory.”

Carol hoped she wasn’t blushing. See, Joey? But she’d been suspicious too. Poor man, living alone in this luxurious shell. “How long ago?”

“Three years in December.”

“I’m sorry.”

Patrick’s nod acknowledged the husky layer of sympathy she hadn’t been able to control. “People who haven’t grieved don’t understand.”

Carol put the remaining baking dishes into the dishwasher, added soap and set it running. Patrick had one of the whisper-quiet ones, not like the monster at the café.

She picked up the vegetable peeler and unwrapped a square of chocolate to shave onto the cakes. “Losing my son Keith was hell.”

“I can imagine.”

Carol focused on letting the chocolate curls fall evenly over the top of the Black Forest. “He was only twelve. I still don’t know how he got into drugs.” They’d been without Skip a few years by that point, and she’d thought they were doing okay.

Tears blurred Carol’s sight. “We got him help, and he tried, he really did. That’s when he brought home the stray dog, Chance.”

She glanced at Patrick, then away, and pulled a tissue from her pocket. “He stayed clean for a month. Then one night I got the call at work. He died before I reached him.”

Shoulders trembling, Carol turned away from the cake, with her back to Patrick. Tears soaked the wadded tissue pressed to her eyes. This was old grief. Not a sharp, sobbing outburst but deeper, a reservoir whose flow was harder to contain once the retaining wall cracked.

Patrick’s seat legs scraped. Carol’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t touch her. A cupboard door rattled, followed by the sound of liquid poured into a cup. “Cream or sugar?”

“I don’t want a drink, thanks.” Carol’s throat squeezed the words into a tortured whisper.

“Coffee is the universal neutral ground. The cake will wait.” No sympathy in Patrick’s tone, just a quiet command that somehow eased a few degrees of her tension.

“One milk then, please. No sugar.” Tears still leaked, but the toaster and bread maker at the far end of the kitchen grew less blurry. Carol kept her eyes fixed on them as Patrick put the coffee mug in her hands.

Their fingers brushed, and as soon as she took the mug he stepped back. “Come with me.”

Again the calm authority soothed her, and her legs unlocked enough to follow him into his living room. The rocking chair was gone from its corner, but Carol wouldn’t intrude again now that she knew its history. She wedged into a corner of the couch, her mind deliberately blank.

Patrick took the matching chair, a safe distance away. “I open the French doors between this room and the dining room for dessert gatherings. The clients are free to mingle. Naturally, Isis remains shut away.”

Carol dabbed her eyes and swallowed an experimental sip of coffee. Her throat ached, but the muscles moved. A second swallow went down with less pain, the third almost normally. She stared into the milky brown liquid. Too soon to thank him. That would only reopen the wound.

She listened as Patrick described his expected guests, their surface interplay and manoeuvring. He seemed to have a good insight into what made them tick. That must be helpful in his work. He sketched a gently amusing view, neither condescending nor judgemental, yet not as if he counted himself among them.

Professional distance would keep these clients from being friends, perhaps, but did the man open up enough to have friends? Right now his reserve let her piece together her composure, but Carol hoped he had somewhere safe to be himself. She didn’t know what she’d have done some nights, without Joey at the other end of the phone.

Patrick finished his coffee and went to open the doors to the dining room. “I’ll set up while you finish the cakes. We’ll leave them in the kitchen until this evening, and the servers will slice them when they arrive to do the final preparations.”

Carol drained her mug and left the room. She couldn’t dwell on gratitude for what he’d just done. She put the final chocolate curls on the Black Forest and the chocolate cheesecake, spread caramel sauce and pecans on one vanilla cheesecake, and raspberry puree on the other. Carefully, she transferred them to Patrick’s large fridge.

He could house a big family. Carol pressed her lips together. Had he and his wife dreamed of children?

Suit jacket in place, Patrick came back into the room while she was cleaning up. “I need to get back to the office. If you’re nearly finished, I’ll wait and set the alarm.”

Forget alarms, the cat was enough to keep Carol from entering uninvited. She gave the counters a final wipe-down. “As soon as I unload the dishwasher.”

“Fine, I’ll phone a taxi.”

Carol wiped the last moisture from the cake pans and stacked them in the box. The ingredients already filled its mate. Patrick handed her an envelope. “Your cheque. I do appreciate this.”

She smiled. “Thank you. By the way, I didn’t tell my boss why I needed the time, so please don’t mention anything to her. I know you didn’t have time to pick the cakes up from Sticky Fingers, and we don’t deliver, but Lily might see this as a conflict of interest. I hope everything goes well tonight.”

“I’m sure it will. It’s unfortunate you have to finish a shift at the café now after the early start.”

Packing finished, Carol perched on one of the high stools. “I’ll make it.”

“No doubt. I imagine it’s hard being the sole provider.”

“Plenty of women do it, and some men.” At least Carol didn’t have Skip’s spending habits to worry about any more.

Patrick leaned one hip against the counter and studied her. “One thing troubles me. You said you had no family, yet you have a brother.”

Carol’s hands clenched in her lap. “I had a brother. We don’t talk about it.”

“It took time to place you, but I remember the news articles.”

“So you know why I disowned him.”

Patrick’s sea-green eyes could have cut glass. “He’ll get what he deserves. I’m curious — he was a wealthy man when he was arrested. Did all the money go to his victims?”

A chill swept through her, and Carol scolded herself. A person who handled investments all day was bound to see the financial angle in everything. “As far as I know. His lawyer was livid. Harry insisted on disposing of all his assets and dividing the money among his victims’ families, before the courts could set damages.”

“Why?”

Carol grinned. “The lawyer seemed to think it was to minimize legal fees. It certainly wasn’t out of the goodness of his twisted heart.” She adjusted her glasses, thinking aloud. “He gave it all away. Unless he had a hidden stash —”

Harry had been into drug running. He might have kept that money untraceable. Is that what the drug lord meant by a quest? Did he think Carol was looking for Harry’s money?

Harry had sent her some of their mother’s things before everything was sold, but if he had money in a safe-deposit box or storage or something, it would still be there. She’d have to tell Detective Garraway.

Patrick stood patiently waiting, his head tilted to one side. Carol shrugged. “I wouldn’t touch it, even if it did exist.”

“If Silver has money, he’ll never be free to use it. I share your scruples, but you have a son to think about. It might be worth your asking.” He spread his hands. “This is my line of work. I could help maximize for... Paul’s?... future. Under the circumstances, and as a friend, I’d waive the fees.”

“I appreciate the thought, Patrick, but he’s out of my life and he’s staying there.”

The taxi’s horn sounded in the drive. Carol slid off her stool and grabbed her purse and the nearer box. “This was supposed to be a fresh start, and suddenly everyone’s after me about my jerk brother.”

Patrick laid a hand on her arm. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Heat crept into Carol’s cheeks. She didn’t know Patrick well enough to worry him about the mystery caller. “I’m fine. A friend asked me about him yesterday, and now you. I guess the timing upset me.”

“Forgive me, how close a friend?”

The serious look in Patrick’s eyes stopped her. “A good friend, I trust him.”

Patrick picked up the other box, but made no move for the door. “May I ask his name?”

“Why?”

“I have well-placed contacts in the city. Would you let me reassure myself that he’s legitimate?”

Carol sighed. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but he’s not a con artist. He’s a deejay at City Classics FM. They would have checked him out before they hired him.”

Patrick frowned and shook his head. “Anyone who knows you’re Silver’s sister is bound to wonder if he shared his wealth. Some may want you to share with them.”

His cool tone raised the hairs on the back of Carol’s neck. This man could be her paranoid twin. “Joey’s not like that. He knows I don’t have anything to spare.” But he had offered to contact Harry about this mysterious quest.

The taxi horn sounded, longer this time. “I have to go, and you’re late for work. Thank you, Patrick.” Carol fled. She’d have paid her own fare home if Patrick hadn’t been behind her with the second box.