Page 41 of The Woodcarver's Model
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That evening, Mitch lay in bed. The curtains were drawn. Rob sat on the edge.
“I’m going to meet with someone tomorrow. I’m not sure if this will work but I think I know something that will help.”
“With what?” So much had happened today that Mitch wasn’t sure which problem Rob was talking about.
“With the fight against the developer.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Too many things rattling around my brain today.”
“Don’t worry. I’m here for you.” Rob leaned over and kissed him, but Mitch didn’t kiss back. “A good night’s sleep will help. Come on. Scooch over.” Mitch slid to his side of the bed and Rob got under the covers then turned off the bedside lamp.
“I have an idea about who could help in the development fight. I’ve got a meeting in Victoria with the magazine publisher. If I could get him on our side, we could get a ton of local publicity. That and what I can get from Twitter and Instagram, we can start a grassroots tsunami to blow those guys right off the island. Now, close your eyes and get some sleep.” With that he put his arms around Mitch and drifted off to sleep. Mitch stared into the blackness and wondered.Kevin can’t be right. Can he? He’s wrong about everything. But…
Chapter Fourteen
Rob didn’t think about contacting the RCMP while he was in Victoria. His priority was to meet with Cedric and get the weight of his magazine behind the Save Marsh Island campaign. He would give the Mounties a shout later.
Vancouver Island Publishing was a small operation in the 800 block of Broughton Street in Victoria, just on the east side of downtown. Rob had taken the first ferry off Marsh Island which allowed him to get the 7:35 a.m. ferry out of Descanso Bay on Gabriola to Nanaimo which would give him plenty of time to find street parking and make his 10:00 a.m. meeting with Cedric Craddock.
Rob bounded up the stairs to the second-floor office where he found a person who he assumed, from the position and configuration of her workspace and software running on her computer, was the receptionist/layout artist/editor and, quite possibly chief copywriter ofWest Coast Traveland other publications. She was hunched over her desk, alternating between her keyboard and a hand-scribbled manuscript, muttering to herself. Rob stood there for a few minutes before he cleared his throat. Her face shot up from her desk like a cornered animal. A strand of brown hair crossed her sweaty forehead.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Rob said.
“My God, how long have you been standing there?” she replied, trying to tidy up her appearance. “I don’t usually ramble on like that when there’s a stranger looking on.”
“No need to explain. I mumble to myself all the time.” Rob never shied away from flirting when he was in a good mood—even with a woman. “Rob Hanson. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr Craddock.”
“Ten o’clock?” She scrambled around her desk finally finding her day-planner which she proceeded to flip through. “Ten o’clock. Ten o’clock, ten o’clock, ten o’clock. What day is it?”
“Wednesday,” Rob replied. She continued to stare at him. “The twenty-fourth. Of August.”
“Right.” She went back to the day-planner. “Here it is. August twenty-fourth, ten a.m.… Nope. Nothing here.”
“But I spoke to him yesterday. I’m writing an article for him and I have a new angle I’d like to pitch.”
“Oh. I don’t doubt that you have an appointment. He’s just forgotten to write anything down in the book, not that I should be surprised. He never does. But he’s not in yet. He’ll be getting his hair trimmed right about now. But don’t worry, he doesn’t have much hair so it won’t take long. Can I get you a coffee?”
“Thanks. I’d love one.”
She spun around to the counter behind her desk where she popped a pod into her Nespresso machine and in a few minutes presented Rob with a perfect coffee.
“The pay may not be the best, but the coffee’s decent. My name’s Brenda, by the way,” she said with a flirtatious smile.
“Nice to meet you.” He smiled, shook her hand and sat down to wait.
* * * *
Cedric Domenico Ferdinand Craddock was a vain man. He would spend an hour each morning shaving, trimming his nose and ear hairs and perfuming and primping his receding hair, all in the belief that he could maintain the looks he’d once had. His dressing routine would add another half-hour, if he’d remembered to polish his shoes the night before. That was not to say that he was an unattractive man, but at the age of sixty-five, it was looking more and more like the effort was not worth the result.
Every Wednesday, Cedric would head off to Enrico’s for a trim. Enrico, his barber, who had been cutting men’s hair for longer than Cedric had had any, insisted that the weekly visits were a waste of good money, but Cedric felt it was important to look his best at all times. The procedure took a matter of a few minutes and Cedric walked out of the shop twenty-five dollars poorer but feeling a million dollars richer.
He always stopped in at the same café on his way into work and the barista always knew what he wanted—a twenty-ounce, triple shot, one pump mocha, non-fat, no whip, with exactly four shakes of cinnamon stirred in. Woe betide the barista who shorted Cedric on his cinnamon shakes. For a straight male, he could out-hissy-fit any princess in Victoria.
Cedric never hurried to work. Punctuality was a sign of subservience and he was the boss. He arrived precisely at fifteen minutes past the hour—thirty minutes on Wednesdays. It never occurred to him that being precisely late every day was still being punctual. Brenda knew this but kept it as her own private joke.
At ten-thirty a.m., the door to Vancouver Island Publishing opened and Cedric made his entrance. He was shocked when he saw a young man standing there. Vancouver Island Publishing rarely had a visitor. In this electronic era, personal visits from anyone were an outdated event. The two men stood there and stared at each other for a moment.
