Uncharted Waters

by Rosemary McCracken

  “I had to strike while the iron was hot. It’s my job to work in a client’s interests.”

  “What did Optimum say about that?”

  “Those nervous Nellies pulled the plug on me. They didn’t let the transaction go through,” he said. “And my client—my client—was taken away from me. That’s why I’m going out on my own. Now here’s what I can do for you…”

  I had heard enough. I left the examination room and walked into the office next door.

  The look on Lukas’s face was priceless. His mouth was open; his eyes skittered from Rose to me, and back again. I stood beside the desk, not saying a word.

  Stéphane came in behind me. Rose placed the recorder on the desk, and hit the play button: “Rose, remember what I told you yesterday? Pat is in serious trouble. She won’t be in business long.”

  “It’s all there,” Rose said, and switched off the recorder.

  “Introductions are in order,” I said. “My former colleague Stéphane Pratt runs Norris Cassidy’s Eglinton and Mount Pleasant branch. Rose Sisto is his administrative assistant.”

  I smiled at Lukas. “And this is Lukas Monaghan, who’s just been fired from Optimum Capital.”

  “You set me up!” Lukas cried.

  “Nobody forced you to make up those lies about Matt Montgomery and Lorraine Comeau,” I said. “Those two people, if they exist, were never my clients.”

  “I spoke to both of them,” he said.

  “I’m going to sue you for slander,” I said. “When I’m through, everyone in the industry will know what you’ve been up to. You’ll never work as a financial advisor again.”

  I held up the recorder. “Right now, I’m going to make a copy of this audio file and send it to your mother. Then I’ll meet with my lawyer.”

  I held up the recorder again. “I’ll see you in court, Lukas.”

  ***

  I bought a coffee at Giorgio’s, then let myself into my office suite. The rooms were quiet, the only sounds the muted hum of traffic on Bloor Street. I went out on the fire escape and basked in the fall sunshine while I drank my coffee.

  Maybe I had put an end to Lukas’s rumors.

  I looked at the alley below, where yellow police tape was fluttering in the breeze. No, the nightmare wasn’t over. I might have stopped Lukas from smearing my name, but he would come up with something else to get back at me. I was running his father’s business, and now he blamed me for being fired from Optimum. He was capable of doing just about anything. He might even have killed his dad.

  I stared at the yellow tape. Where did Riza fit into the puzzle?

  My cell vibrated in my jacket pocket.

  “It’s Saturday,” Ben said. “Has a window opened for me in your busy weekend?”

  The events of the past 24 hours may have addled my judgment, but socializing with a client no longer seemed completely unprofessional. I needed a distraction. I didn’t want to spend the rest of the weekend worrying about what Lukas might do next.

  “My plans have changed,” I said. “I’m free tomorrow.”

  “I had a feeling this weekend would work out for us,” Ben said. “That’s why I called.”

  He told me he’d be presenting a check the next day to a choral group that had applied for a grant from Cordova Philanthropies. “Like to come with me? The group will be performing in Blairhampton, so we can have a nice lunch, and take in the Blairhampton Fall Festival.”

  Blairhampton was a pretty town in the heart of farm country northeast of Toronto. “I’d like that,” I told him.

  He said he’d pick me up at nine the next morning.

  “You called my home number the other night,” I said. “How did you get it?”

  He chuckled. “I spoke to Sam. Told her I had some urgent business with you.”

  I gritted my teeth. Another bone to pick with my assistant, although I realized I needed to choose my battles with her. She’d probably thought Ben wanted to talk to me about his portfolio. After all, I’d told her he was an important client.

  “She probably gave you my address, too,” I said.

  He laughed and said he’d see me the next morning.

  I hadn’t given him my address, so I had my answer.

  Chapter Thirty

  “You promised you’d be home this weekend,” Tommy said at breakfast the next morning. “You went to work yesterday morning, and today you’re working with Ben.”

  I reached over and ruffled his hair. “Sweetie, I know I said I’d be here. But something important came up yesterday, and Ben is one of my top clients.”

  “That makes him important?”

  “The success of my new business depends on keeping people like Ben happy.” It didn’t sound very convincing to me, and Tommy wasn’t buying it, either.

  “Weekends are your days away from work,” he said, “and they’re my days away from school. Can’t Ben see you tomorrow?”

  “Sometimes I have work to do on weekends. It’s just how it works out, like your school holds its track-and-field days on Saturdays.”

  I got up from the table and gave Tommy a hug. “Hey, you’ll be busy all day today. Farah will take you over to Jake’s house at 10. You’ll be there for a few hours, and Laura will be here with you this afternoon. You’re going to bake cookies with her.”

  “Mom, who is this Ben you’re going off with?” Laura asked, coming into the kitchen.

  “Ben Cordova is a client who’s giving a presentation in Blairhampton,” I said. “You’ll meet him when he picks me up at nine.”

  “Picks you up? That sounds like a date to me,” she said. “I would like to meet him, but I’m off to Marilyn’s shop. Kyle’s waiting in the car.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tommy called to me upstairs. “Ben’s here. You should see his car. It’s really big!”

  I looked out my bedroom window. A silver Lincoln Continental sedan was parked in front of the house. My day suddenly got a whole lot better.

  Ben was wearing a navy blazer and gray-flannel pants—the most dressed-up I’d seen him. He gave me a nod of approval when I came down the stairs, and I knew my beige trouser suit had passed muster.

  I introduced him to Tommy.

  “That’s a really big car you drive, sir,” Tommy said.

  “Yes, it is. I’ll take you for a spin one day if that’s okay with your mother.”

  “My mother’s dead. But Mrs. T will let me go for a drive in your car. Won’t you?” Tommy asked me.

  “Of course.” I gave him a hug. “I’ll be home for dinner.”

  Tommy turned to Ben. “Are you and Mrs. T really going to work, or are you going on a date?”

  “Tommy,” I said, “you ask too many questions.”

  I opened the front door and followed Ben outside.

  ***

  “I assumed Tommy was your son,” Ben said in the car. “Did I upset him by mentioning his mother?”

  “People think I’m Tommy’s mother when they first meet us, and he always corrects them. His mother died last year. He doesn’t want to forget her.”

  Ben had no more questions about Tommy. I was grateful for that, because I didn’t want to discuss how Tommy’s mother had died. It was too lovely a day to talk about murder. And I certainly didn’t want to discuss Tommy’s last question to Ben.

  But Ben didn’t have much to say at all on the drive to Blairhampton. Something was on his mind.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I said after a while.

  “Huh?” He shook his head. “Sorry, it’s just…something I have to take care of.”

  “Like to talk about it?”

  “No!” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be brusque. Let’s enjoy this beautiful fall day.”

  “Okay.” I forced a smile and watched the scenery roll by. I was determined that this would be a pleasant outing.

  The fall countryside was ablaze with color. An hour down the road, we left the highway, and drove north. Forest gave way to farm
ers’ fields, split-rail fences, and pretty farmhouses. Soon, a roadside sign told us we were approaching Blairhampton, population 6,655.

  “Are we going to an audition?” I asked Ben.

  “No, a real concert. The Blairhampton Chorale are performing at the fall festival,” he said. “After they’re done, I’ll present the director with a check. When Marianne reviews a performer or a group, she tries to attend a concert, then she interviews the artist or the director. This group passed with flying colors. She wants the check delivered in person.”

  “And you’re her delivery man.”

  He gave me a sheepish smile. “My grandson is playing soccer today. Marianne wanted to watch him. Normally, I’d be there, too.”

  I liked what I was hearing. Ben was clearly tight with his daughter and his grandkids.

  He parked on a residential street, and we walked over to the fairgrounds. A giant Ferris wheel was slowly revolving in the center of the grounds. To our right, several children’s rides were in full swing. To our left, shoppers crowded in front of stands selling sausages, cheese, preserves, and baked goods.

  Ben was buying us cups of hot mulled cider when a dark-haired young man with a button nose too small for his face hurried over to us. “Mr. Cordova, we are so glad you could be here today.” He extended his right hand. “I’m John Struthers, Mayor Prescott’s assistant.”

  Ben handed me a cup of cider, and the two men shook hands.

  “Please follow me,” John said.

  “Come with us, Pat,” Ben said. Not wanting to make a fuss, I let him link an arm through my free one. We followed John over to the stage, where a crowd had gathered.

  “We’ll wait here,” John told us at the stairs to the stage. We stood to the side as a group of men and women dressed in black trooped up the stairs and onto the stage.

  A stout woman, looking like an oversized pumpkin in a burnt-orange jacket and brown trousers, took the podium. She was greeted with a round of cheering and clapping. She picked up the mic. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Penelope Prescott, Blairhampton’s mayor. A big welcome to everyone on the second day of the Blairhampton Fall Festival. We’re celebrating nature’s bounty this weekend, and you’ll see products from local farms and dairies for sale on the grounds.”

  Penelope adjusted the mic, and a torrent of static erupted over the sound system. “Sorry about that assault on your ears,” she said. “Blairhampton County’s harvest doesn’t just nourish the body. Our township is home to many artists, writers and musicians. This morning, the Blairhampton Chorale will sing a piece from Corinne, an opera-in-progress, by the Chorale’s artistic director Derek Hendricks. Corinne tells the story of Corinne Abenaki, the Indigenous artist and social activist who was born and grew up in the Mohawk Nation at Akwesasne, which was also Mr. Hendricks’s birthplace. Here is the Blairhampton Chorale with ‘The Chorus of Haunted Souls.’”

  She raised an arm to the performers on stage. Hendricks, a handsome man with a short mantail, lifted his baton. The group broke into a magnificent lament for the hardships that Corinne Abenaki’s ancestors had endured.

  When the applause had died down, Penelope took the mic again. “Thank you, choir members and Mr. Hendricks.”

  Hendricks took a bow.

  “Now,” Penelope said, “I would like to introduce Ben Cordova of Cordova Philanthropies. Mr. Cordova has come all the way from Toronto to be with us this morning.”

  “This is as far as I’m going,” I told Ben. “It’s your show.”

  He ran up the stairs, and onto the stage. Penelope welcomed him at the podium and handed him the mic.

  Ben was relaxed, clearly enjoying the moment. He praised the choir and the opera. “On behalf of Cordova Philanthropies, I’m happy to present the Blairhampton Chorale with $25,000 toward the completion of Corinne. We’re really excited about this project.”

  The mayor waved Hendricks over to the podium. Ben shook hands with him, and took an envelope from inside his jacket. “I’m looking forward to the opening of Corinne,” Ben said.

  Hendricks was beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Cordova and Cordova Philanthropies. You can count on front-row seats.”

  The audience cheered, and the choir broke into a glorious, exuberant song that I gathered would be performed at a celebratory part of the opera.

  “You made their day,” I said, when Ben returned to my side.

  “Giving out grants is great fun. The only downside to running a philanthropy is having to turn down applicants, but that’s Marianne’s job now.” He took my elbow. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

  He had a table booked for us at The Blairhampton Mill. The old stone sawmill at the edge of town had found a new life as a boutique inn and a five-star restaurant. Our table in the dining room overlooked the foaming waters of the Crowe River.

  The food was exquisite. Cream of red pepper soup, followed by duck breast with spinach and mushrooms, and a side order of roasted asparagus. White chocolate and cherry trifle was the grand finale. Ben’s introspective mood had passed, and we chatted about everything from the upcoming election to golf courses in Barbados, where Ben spent part of the winter.

  I found myself telling Ben the story that Lukas had been circulating about me. But I stopped short of describing the meeting we’d set up with him the previous day.

  “Lukas is full of hot air,” Ben said, “and he has zero credibility. No one will believe that story, coming from him.”

  I hoped Ben was right, but I wasn’t so sure.

  After lunch, we spent an hour exploring the fairgrounds. Ben volunteered to take part in a strudel-making demonstration. I snapped photos of him trussed up in a long apron, trying to stretch dough over a cloth-covered butcher’s block. He couldn’t manage to get it over the entire block; as soon as one side was covered, holes appeared in the dough on the other side.

  “You didn’t give me enough dough,” he complained to the instructor, a pretty young woman in a blue dirndl.

  She laughed, and trimmed the edges of the short side, spread a thin layer of toasted bread crumbs over the dough, and added a row of apple-and-raisin filling down the middle. Then, lifting one end of the cloth, she rolled the strudel into a long cylinder.

  “Looks like a big burrito,” Ben said.

  “I’ll get you some baked strudel to take home.” I went over to the bakery and bought two boxes of strudel.

  “Up for a spin on the High Roller?” Ben asked when I handed him a box of strudel.

  “Absolutely, but let’s get these boxes into your car first.”

  It was chilly on the Ferris wheel, and I didn’t mind when Ben put an arm around me. Cozy and relaxed, I took in the township spread out below us like a patchwork quilt: farmers’ fields edged with scarlet and yellow trees, swaths of dark-green forest, and the occasional pond reflecting the blue sky, all criss-crossed by black roads and scored diagonally by the silver river. The terrain grew hilly to the north, with a dark ridge framing that end of the picture.

  Beside me, Ben had retreated into his thoughts again.

  A cloud passed over the sun. The patches of fields and forest and water seemed to shift like pieces in a kaleidoscope. And the pieces of the jigsaw I had been puzzling over moved as well. I remembered what Lukas had said the previous day about his attempt, a week ago last Wednesday, to invest money he was holding in trust for his client. A week ago last Wednesday—10 days ago—was the day Dean was murdered.

  I’d been looking at the puzzle the wrong way.

  Ben was all solicitous attention as we left the gondola. He took my arm, making sure that I found my footing. “Shall we head over to the conservation park?” he asked as we crossed the fairgrounds. “It’s only a 20-minute drive from here.”

  I shook my head. “It’s been a lovely day, Ben, thank you. But I should be getting home.”

  ***

  We were both deep in thought on the drive back to the city. Ben pulled up in front of my house, and turned off the ignition.

 
“Thanks for coming today,” he said.

  “I had a lovely time,” I replied, but our day in the country was no longer at the top of my mind. On the trip home, I’d been thinking about Ben’s upcoming portfolio-review meeting. I had already gone over his holdings. I planned to tweak his asset allocation, and there were several questions I needed to throw at him. I was also primed for his questions on my investment philosophy, my succession plan and what I could do for him as a client. He’d said he wouldn’t necessarily stay with whomever bought Dean’s business, but I was satisfied that I’d done my damnedest to keep him. I couldn’t do anything more.

  “Pat, I gave you a hard time at our first meeting. But now that I know you better, I believe we’re a good fit. I don’t have a lot of time to spend on my investments. You can do the heavy lifting, and I’ll follow up with my broker.”

  I looked at him in surprise, but I kept my excitement in check. “We’ll talk more about it on Tuesday,” I said as I opened the car door.

  As soon as the Lincoln rounded the street corner, I punched a fist into the air. “Ben Cordova is staying with me!” I cried.

  ***

  The house was quiet. Laura was resting in her room, and Tommy and Maxie were watching cartoons in the sunroom. In the kitchen, I raised a glass of chardonnay to a productive working relationship with Ben. Then I drained the glass, and set about making dinner. As I chopped vegetables for a salad, my euphoria subsided, and my worries about Lukas surfaced.

  I put a pasta casserole in the microwave to defrost, then tried Zach Rosen’s cell number.

  I reached him at his home in cottage country. The Beach Boys were singing “Good Vibrations” in the background.

  “We took in the dock today,” Zach said. “We’re celebrating with ‘docktails’ on the beach. What’s up with you?”

  “You said Lukas visited a client on the afternoon his father was killed.”

  Zach chuckled. “You are tenacious, Pat.”

  “Zach, I need to know. You said Lukas’s appointment was at two. Was he away from Optimum all afternoon?”

  “I’m sorry, Pat, but Lukas has an alibi.” Static erupted on the line. “Lukas was back by 3 p.m.,” Zach shouted, “and he placed a large buy order. Our compliance people were onto it immediately. Lukas and I met with the chief compliance officer and the VP of operations. He left the building around six, just before me.”