Seven

Time for some answers.

Driving up the road, Matt caught a glimpse of the lake through the trees, looking like slate beneath storm clouds. So much for taking the boat out this afternoon.

The truck’s tires crunched over gravel as he pulled up in front of the large green building.

On Tuesdays, Chocoholic’s was closed. His one day off a week, and he’d be using it to interrogate an old friend. To pave the way, he’d brought lunch.

He parked in his usual spot, right out front, and got out of the car. With the height of the roof and the wide garage door, the two-story steel building looked like an airplane hangar. And had been mistaken for one, when Jeffrey first built it, all those years ago. It was actually an agricultural storage building — an economical way to set up a functioning workshop. Simple, sturdy, and filled with memories. Good ones. He’d spent a lot of hours here, growing up.

From the open garage door came the grind of an electric sander, barely overpowered by the sonorous, soul-shaking rhythm of some seventies rock band blasting from the overhead speakers.

Matt grabbed an insulated bag off the passenger seat and headed in.

Sawdust hung in the air, mingling with the smell of wood and metal, oil, and varnish. Seemed like every time he came by these days, he had to find a new path through the maze of lumber, shelving, and extension cords.

“Jeffrey!” he shouted.

No way he’d hear him over the noise of the sander and the music.

Matt crossed the concrete floor, moving around a stack of two-by-fours, past the circle of mismatched chairs, ready for coffee break, and on into the back.

He found him sitting on a stool by the open back door, earmuffs on, sanding what looked like the side of a bookcase. Oak, judging by the graining — those pinstripes and knots. Through the open door, Matt saw the first raindrops hit the ground. Any second now, it would be pouring cats and dogs.

He moved into Jeffrey’s line of vision, caught his eye, and held up the bag. “Lunch?”

Jeffrey switched off the sander and pulled off the hearing protection, resting the padded muffs around his neck. “Pizza?” Edge of humour to his voice. “Or burgers?”

He laughed. “I thought you had better taste than that. I might have to find a new guinea pig.”

“You haven’t poisoned me — yet.”

Out of habit, Matt scanned the notes tacked to the sheet of plywood by the wall phone. Only four in total. That board used to flap with a dozen scraps of paper or more. Probably stored on an app now, but Jeffrey had built his business on those chicken scratches. Orders, types of wood, measurements, paint — a cipher and hardly legible at that. His own cellphone number though was clear as day, scrawled black and permanent, right on the wood.

“Watch for nails over there,” Jeffrey warned. “Lonely on your day off, Matt?”

He turned away from the wall. “Nah. I thought I’d take pity on an old man, slaving away out here on his own.”

“Old man? Dollars to nothing, I was twice as productive as you today.” Jeffrey dabbed sweat off his forehead with a rag. “How are you doing? Must be a lot on your plate right now.”

Of course, he’d ask. “It helps to keep busy.” And he had more than enough to do.

Jeffrey shot him a glance, looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it.

Little did he know, this was more than just a social visit.

As Jeffrey turned down the music and cleared the worktable, sweeping away sawdust and shavings, Matt walked around, checking out the latest projects, biding his time. He paused beside one that looked like a large crate, the walls almost five foot high. “What’s this?”

Jeffrey glanced over. “A flowerbox.”

“This is a flowerbox?” It was huge.

“I had some leftover wood. Thought it would help block the view to the neighbour. Plus” — Jeffrey grinned — ”seriously piss him off.”

“Don’t you think your feud with Andrew has gone on long enough?” They’d been at each other for as long as he could remember. At some point, you had to let it go.

He shrugged. “I’ll grow stuff in it. Make it look pretty.”

“Skip the peonies. You could plant cedar trees, if you felt like it.”

Jeffrey guffawed. “That’s not a bad idea.” He went over to the small fridge, tucked beneath the stairs. “I’m done with the power tools for today. Want a beer?”

“I’m driving.”

“Fair enough.” He took one for himself and snagged a water, the kind he still stocked in bulk.

Matt caught the bottle he tossed to him. “No helper today?” For a while, that had been his job. He had worked with Jeffrey on and off all through high school, helping out with residential jobs and some of the woodworking in the shop.

Jeffrey hooked the bottle cap on the edge of the table, gave it a slam with the flat of his hand. Beer fountained over the lip. “I gave the kid the afternoon off.”

Matt lowered the water, without drinking. “Getting soft, are you?” July and August were peak months for cottage renovations. “I can’t remember getting any weekdays off, not during the summer. At one point, you had me working seven days a week.” And he’d never been tempted to complain, not once.

“Times change.” Jeffrey straddled a chair backwards and gestured at the bag. “What did you bring me?”

He knew when to push and when to leave well enough alone. He unpacked the bag, setting the plastic storage containers on the table. “Spinach, goat cheese and black olive muffins.”

Jeffrey raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle. He cracked the lid and looked inside.

“A mixed green salad,” Matt said. Individual servings, portioned off in Tupperware. He pulled out a jam jar and shook the liquid inside. “French vinaigrette.”

He took the jar from him and opened it, took a sniff. “Dijon base?”

“You got it.”

“And the chocolate?”

He grinned. “Later.” He poured the vinaigrette over the salads and handed one container to Jeffrey, along with a fork. He settled back on the stool, one foot on the rung, and took a swig of water.

Jeffrey eyed the muffin, then broke off a piece. Checking the consistency and texture, looking for an evenly browned crust and rounded top, before tasting it.

He asked, “What do you think?”

As usual, Jeffrey took his time replying, letting the flavours unfold first, before giving a verdict. “Moist and delicate. No paper cups, nice golden finish.” He broke off another piece. “Surprisingly fresh taste. Is that dill?”

“Yup.”

“Olive oil instead of butter. Clever.”

The oil he’d chosen had herbal notes, with a slightly buttery, almost peppery finish. “I thought it would pair well with the bitterness of the olives.”

“It does. I like these muffins.”

Coming from the man who taught him to cook, the praise carried weight. It was unsettling how much a few words of encouragement from Jeffrey still meant to him. “Good, there’s lots.” He’d loaded up the container, planning to leave the leftovers with him once they’d finished lunch.

Jeffrey tried a forkful of salad next. “Nice tang to the vinaigrette. Sherry vinegar?”

“What else?”

He chewed, swallowed. “Not enough salt.”

And, there it was. Room for improvement, blunt and honest. Jeffrey always had one piece of advice, one point of critique to give. And that was why he still came to him with samples. “You always say that.”

“That’s because it’s always true. Stingy with seasoning, that’s what you are.” He wiped his mouth on the paper napkin.

“Stingy?”

Outside, the rain began to fall in a hard sheet that drummed on the metal roof.

“Miserly.” Jeffrey grinned. “Could be, you’ve been focusing too much on the sweeter things in life, chocolatier. You’re out of practice when it comes to savoury dishes.” His eyes twinkled.

“Yeah, yeah.” He took a bite of a muffin. Maybe it could use another pinch of salt.

“I’d say–” Jeffrey paused, leaned forward, as though about to impart some piece of hard-won wisdom. “Ditch the chocolate-stained apron and make more of these.”

He laughed. “My new source of livelihood.”

They focused on the food for a while, until Jeffrey said, “Out with it.”

Guilt shot through him. “What?”

“Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

And that’s what happened when you spent too much time with someone. They picked up on all your tells. “Remind me not to play poker with you again,” he muttered.

“Your face is an open book, my friend. Always has been.”

He shifted his weight on the stool. “Actually, I have some questions for you.”

“Questions? Are you sure, you don’t have something you want to tell me?” Jeffrey gave him a pointed look, like he should know what he was talking about.

Matt hadn’t seen that expression in a very long time. What mistake did he want him to fess up to? “No,” he said. “I’ve got questions.”

An emotion flickered across Jeffrey’s face, but he shut it down before Matt could decipher it. He nodded. “So, you’ve finally figured it out.”

Matt knew this game and caught on quick. He’d been half expecting a lecture after that buildup, but the tone had changed. And he’d play along. “All your deep dark secrets?”

“The witness protection.” Jeffrey kept a straight face. “My past with the mob. The drugs, the women.” When it came to tall tales, he could put Mark Twain to shame.

“The money,” Matt said, the twists and turns of the story easy to anticipate.

“The price of blood.”

He gestured with his water bottle. “Nothing the best chocolate in the world couldn’t rival.”

“Cocoa beans, worth their weight in gold. And it’s all stashed —”

“In the basement. I know.”

“Ah,” Jeffrey said. “You found it.”

“Early on. I’ve been siphoning it off for years.”

“Damn. All right.” Jeffrey reached for another muffin, his third. “Ask away.”

“No made-up stories this time,” he warned. “This is serious.”

“Scout’s honour.” His lips twitched.

“I’d believe that more if you’d been a Scout.”

“Details.” Jeffrey waved his hand.

“I found an envelope in Dad’s office.” Keeping his voice level, casual. His dad had been happy enough to let Jeffrey take his teenage son under his wing when he couldn’t cope. But those two had always clashed like oil and water, put at odds by different personalities and opinions and that had lasted to the day he died. “He had a film cartridge developed. Some old pictures. Thought you might know where they were taken.” And why.

That caught his interest, as Matt knew it would. “How old are we talking?”

“Probably eighteen years.”

Jeffrey’s eyebrows went up. “My memory’s good, but that might be pushing it.”

“We can take a shot at it,” he said easily. Although it mattered, a lot. “More curiosity than anything.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. Scrolled through until he found the album he’d downloaded off his computer last night. The resolution was good, surprisingly so.

Jeffrey wiped his hand on his jeans and took the phone from him.

“There’s about eight pictures there.” He wished he could read Jeffrey, like the man could read him.

Jeffrey looked at the first image and shot a glance at him. “A construction site?”

“Looks like. If my guess about the timing is right, and Mom took those pictures, you would have been the general contractor. And these were taken just before the accident.”

Those eight pictures, they were all lit by a flash. Taken late in the day. Dusk setting in, throwing shadows. There was something furtive about the photographs. Something that felt off. And, if he was right, that job had been Jeffrey’s.

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Jeffrey said.

“She worked for you, at the time.”

If he ran his business the way he did now, he would have kept records, done inspections, been on top of every aspect. Those scribbled notes by the wall phone were just orders, reminders. When a project was underway, Jeffrey was thorough, documenting every last detail himself. Even if it meant putting in an extra half hour at the end of the workday, he never skipped that step or passed it off to anyone else.

Matt said, “Tell me, if you think I’m wrong.”

“These are all close-ups. Of supporting structures,” Jeffrey said, slowly. He touched the screen, zooming in on the details.

“Do you think Mom took those photographs?” That envelope, those negatives, felt like a portal to the past. Or a message.

Jeffrey flipped back and forth between the images, studying them closely. “Could have been ...” He trailed off.

“What?” He leaned forward. Something on the screen had caught the man’s eye. But what?

“No, nothing.” Jeffrey put the phone down. “Could you email these to me?”

“You know something.” It came out sharper than he’d intended. He had to tamp down on that surge of impatience, that need to know, no matter the cost.

“Let me look into it.” Jeffrey must have seen something in his expression, and added, “More guesses won’t help you, Matt.”

He was this close to pushing for more. He’d seen that flash of recognition before Jeffrey hid it. He was holding out on him.

A gust of wind whipped through the open door, splattering rain on the concrete floor. Bringing in the summer scent of water on scorched earth.

Deception — it seemed like that was his dad’s legacy. That and a house full of leaks and creaking floorboards. If he could just get one fact, something that rang true for once, then maybe he could stop wondering, stop dwelling on the what ifs.

Luckily, there was no one in the world he trusted more than Jeffrey. If the man made a promise, he kept it. “Okay,” he backed down. “Thanks.”

“Now.” Jeffrey rubbed his hands together. “Where’s that chocolate?”

Matt opened the indigo blue box, revealing the cushioned contents. “Candied orange peel dipped in semi-sweet chocolate. Burnt caramel flecked with fleur de sel, enrobed in dark milk chocolate.”

s

Jeffrey shot him a look. “You do want answers.”

“Damn straight, I do. Seems like every time I turn around, all I find are more secrets.” More lies.

“I’m sure your father had his reasons.” His tone was even, but Matt caught a flash of something sharper hidden beneath. “If he’d had more time, I don’t think he would have left you with as many loose ends to tie up.”

“Loose ends? They’re more like knots. Each time I think I’ve unraveled one, they only get tighter. I can’t believe you of all people are defending him.” The sting of betrayal caught him off guard.

“All I’m saying is, it’s hard to blame a man for dying. I’ll help you slice through your Gordian knot. But first” — Jeffrey picked up the candied orange peel — “tell me how you got that crisp, clean break on the coating.”

Change of subject. Okay, then. He could talk about chocolate all day long. “Come by Chocoholic’s sometime, and I’ll show you.”

Jeffrey shook his head and wagged a finger at him. “You’ll just put me to work.”

“Hmm...” He selected one of the caramel chocolates, decided it was time to lighten the mood. “Isn’t that what I used to say to you? The tables have turned, haven’t they?”

Jeffrey laughed. “Pass me another chocolate, wise guy. Better yet, pass me the box. I’m wary of the day you come to collect your bill.”

“Didn’t you say, ‘Chocolate is worth its weight in gold?’ Soon you’ll be drowning in debt, old man.” But he’d take intel over gold, any day.

“Well then, by now, I must be in over my head. Why struggle?” Jeffrey bit into a chocolate-coated curl of orange peel and closed his eyes on a hum of appreciation. “Death by chocolate?” he asked, his voice muffled by the candy. He swallowed and said, “There are worse ways to go.