Page 42 of The Woodcarver's Model
“Mr Craddock, your ten a.m. appointment is here,” Brenda announced.
“My…who are you?”
“Rob Hanson. Estelle Fillion’s client.”
“Oh my God, of course. It completely slipped my mind. Please, come into my office, Mr Hanson. Brenda, hold my calls.” He led Rob into the inner office.
* * * *
The descent began with a knock on the door.
Mitch had been talking to Kevin over afternoon coffee in the kitchen. The kind of people who would visit Mitch never knocked. People in small communities didn’t do that. It was a thing done in cities where people didn’t know each other, and on the island, everyone knew everyone. So the sound of knocking at the door was entirely out of place. Mitch went silent for a moment until a second set of three raps shook him out of his stillness.
He opened the door to find a man and a woman dressed in suits. Another gross anomaly. He knew their type from his previous life.
“May I help you?” he asked as politely as possible but wasn’t able to hide the subtle quaver in his voice.
“Rob Hanson?” asked the woman.
“No. Mitch Carcross.”
“Does Mr Hanson live here?” she asked.
“Yes. He’s staying here.”
“Is he in?” questioned the man.
“No…” Mitch replied. His mind was filling with uncertainty. He knew something was wrong, but Rob must be okay or they wouldn’t be asking for him.
“May we come in?” the woman said and started to enter without waiting for an answer.
“Who are you?” He remembered the last time something like this had happened. It was in Vancouver, and they weren’t there for Rob.
“Well. This is interesting.” It came from Kevin, who had a sly smile on his face.
* * * *
For a man as prim and proper as Cedric Craddock, Rob would have expected his office to be a little more organised and a lot cleaner. Rob was mistaken. Craddock was a publisher, and this was the sort of publisher’s office that Rob was used to—piles of manila envelopes, containing manuscripts from hopeful writers; bundles of issues of magazines to be given away as promotional material; stacks of city guides; other publishers’ output; coffee cups; and, much to his delight, an old Remington typewriter which sat beside an only slightly newer computer. It was clear that Brenda did the heavy lifting in this operation.
“So, Rob—you don’t mind me calling you Rob, do you?” Cedric asked, indicating that Rob should sit.
“Not at all, Mr Craddock.”
“Please, call me Cedric. Estelle would have my balls if I treated you any differently. Now, how is your piece for my magazine coming?”
“That’s why I asked for this meeting.”
“Oh?” Cedric replied with a shade of concern.
“No—I’ve finished writing the article for you. I think you’ll be pleased with it. A little place like Marsh Island is such a gem that the article pretty well wrote itself.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
“But recent events have made me wish I’d written a different piece.”
“What do you mean by recent events?” Cedric asked with concern.
“I’ve just discovered that there is a push to develop the island in a way that will destroy everything that makes it special. Its socio-eco-tourist resources could be pushed to the limit.”
