Page 52 of Not a Word

“I believe I do.”

Catherine let out a sigh of relief. “I suppose I thought, given your role at the company, you might have some advice where all this is concerned.”

“You know what I think, Mrs. Chartwell?”

She waited, almost breathless.

“We should meet to discuss this further,” he said. “I hear the concern in your voice.”

“That, well, that’s very kind, but I don’t want to impose.”

“Not at all. My Wiffel-Smith safety and security responsibilities are not limited to Mr. Wiffel. My purview includes staff and their families when it is deemed necessary.”

“That’s comforting.” And not just his words, she thought. It was how he said them, as though his concern for her welfare was genuine.

“How would tomorrow morning work? I can come by your house.”

“That . . . that would be perfect. Around ten?”

“Excellent. Until tomorrow then, Mrs. Chartwell.”

“Catherine. Please call me Catherine.”

Crane showed up at ten sharp in a silver Infiniti sedan and suggested they go somewhere for a drink. A little early, he conceded, for a cocktail or anything along those lines, but maybe a coffee in a private setting? He was a member of the golf and country club about halfway between Yorkton Hill and Toronto, about a twenty-minute drive.

“Sure,” she said. “We’ve been there a couple of times. For weddings.”

The club had an outdoor patio that overlooked the eighteenth hole. They took over a small table, under the shade of a broad umbrella, and Catherine apologized for taking Crane away from his work as a uniformed staff member brought a latte for her and an espresso for him.

“This is part of my job,” he said, looking at her through his thick-rimmed glasses. “Making sure Wiffel-Smith employees, and their families, feel safe and secure.”

She realized, fairly quickly, that her initial impression of him had been hasty. Maybe it had been the glasses that made her think of him as a nerd back when she’d met him at the party. But he was not unhandsome. Strong cheekbones, broad shoulders. His hair was thinning but he’d made no pathetic attempts to grow it long at the sides and do a combover. And sure, he wasn’t six feet tall, but then, Tom Cruise wasn’t either. What really won her over was his mix of charm and confidence. He carried himself well.

Catherine found herself wanting to know more about him. “Are you married? Children?”

He smiled. “Very briefly. Long ago. Just long enough to have a daughter. Agatha.” He smiled as he said her name. “But I rarely see her. She lives with her mother. It’s all just as well. The company expects a hundred and ten percent from me. I’m afraid I’d be a very neglectful husband and father.”

“How long have you been working for Mr. Wiffel?”

“Thirteen years. It’s been quite a ride. The company was immensely successful when I joined, but since then the growth has been exponential.” Another smile. “Everyone’s done very well. Yourselves included. Mr. Wiffel holds your husband in high regard.”

“He’s been very good to us. Brent works so hard, he’s so committed. He’s a real believer in making people’s lives better.” She paused. “But success sometimes has its . . . I don’t want to say dark side. But it can come with complications.”

“My father used to say, you increase your comforts, you increase your cares. Not that he had many. Comforts, that is. He was a worker bee.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A cog in the machine. Worked for a huge accounting firm. Midlevel position, a modest salary. A good father, but we weren’t exactly vacationing in Paris every year. Lost him, and my mother, long ago.”

Catherine cleared her throat, working up to something. “Brent intimated, at the party, that you were probably carrying a gun.”

Crane took a sip of his espresso. “I like to be discreet about such things.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right. Brent was correct.”

“You feel you need one.”