La Cena

By Robert Neil Baker

Carol Champion is unsure she wants her late husband’s chair in a four-couple gourmet group to be filled by Mark Wilson. Mark is her best friend Megan's husband's new business partner. Megan dies hosting a dinner party weekend. No one in La Cena quite believes the death was accidental, and Megan’s passing affects all the group members. Carol inherits her executive job. Mark’s partnership with her husband is threatened. Trust fund money passes to Megan’s brother. Carol and Mark soon find strong mutual attraction competing with suspicions Megan’s death raises as La Cena members turn on one another. The new lovers must unravel a tangle of financial affairs and a secret sexual liaison centered on a murky investment scheme if they are to come to fully trust each other and learn how Megan died.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509217250

Book preview

America

Chapter One

Carol Champion stared across a cluttered FirstRealty desk at the crisply tailored woman, her close friend and mentor. So it’s a fix-up.

Megan Hart did that maddeningly assertive head wagging. No way; Jeremy is likely to go into business with this guy. We’d like all five of you to size him up, personally and socially.

And if he uses the wrong fork, I report it so you and Jeremy can flee from him?

Aw come on, Carol, it’s no big deal. You’re going to join in La Cena’s annual weekend at our lake place, except this time it includes one person you haven’t met.

It still smells like the rest of you trying to bind up my wounds of widowhood—and infidelity. It’s only been four months, Megan. Let me wallow in lonely pissed off grief a bit longer. I agreed to stay in La Cena, didn’t I? I’m shopping for food for the weekend, right?

Good girl. I heard you’re torn about changing delis or not, though.

And that proves I can’t cope without James who picked the old one? Good grief. He had wandered off the ranch again, and we were separated when he died. Speaking of wandering, where were you two days ago? I thought we had a lunch date, but your admin said you were somewhere up the Lake Michigan shore.

Megan inspected her cuticles as she spoke, an evasion. Oh, I was checking out a property our neighbor is interested in. She should get a vacation home. She’s a workaholic like you.

I’m a workaholic now, eh? Have you got any other complaints about my behavior?

Well, your car is dirty. You always washed that thing weekly even in bad weather.

Oh for the love of…I’m going to start parking in the back of the lot.

Megan smirked maliciously. Try it. I have spies everywhere now I’m upper management. So, how about it? Can you bring yourself to be nice to our new Mark Wilson for two days and tell us your impressions of the guy? Can you do that, old friend?

I will attend two days of over-eating beside Lake Huron and be polite and attentive to him, for which sacrifice you will never push a man at me again.

Deal. Megan’s cell chirped a warning. Oh goodie, time for another marketing meeting. I’m out of here; tons to do. I need Friday off so I can get ready for our party. Aaron will be gone too; my boss is actually taking his family to Mackinaw for a long weekend.

Are you two getting along better?

Some days. Oh, Jennifer said you can ride with her and Todd Saturday morning.

I’ll thank her, but I’ll drive my dirty car so I can stop at an antique store I like.

Suit yourself. We’re going to have a great weekend. Jeremy and I are not pushing this guy at you. If you actually think you’re done with men, you might consider getting a cat. See you later.

Yeah, see you.

Get a cat? Were things that bad? Carol’s mind drifted to her volunteer work at a local nursing home and their beloved, chubby tabby, accessible to her twice a week. He was enough of a pet for her needs, with no upkeep on her part. When she was twice this age, pushing past eighty, maybe there’d be one at home. But no more husbands.

****

Irritated by the interruption, Mark Wilson picked up the insistent telephone. He was alone in the office. As soon as he could afford it, he’d beg his new administrative assistant to work more than twenty hours a week for him. He’d have to convince her she’d still see enough of her uniquely precocious grandchildren if she agreed. Hello, this is Mark.

Hey, partner, Jeremy here.

The voice was too loud and too cheerful. Why hadn’t he noticed that after they met at the conference in Chicago, or when he’d first come to Michigan to discuss a partnership? Oh well; that ship had sailed. Mark moved from the elegance of the Chicago Lakefront to this prosperous, prosaic Detroit suburb so they could be partners. Why? It was time for a life change, for career growth. It had nothing to do with a dismal recent history with women.

Hello, Jeremy, what’s up, you got the first big client for us?

No, good leads, but nothing firmed up. Don’t worry. The Obama administration is settling down after four tough years, and the second half of 2013 is going to go gangbusters. But this call is social. Megan and I mentioned our La Cena to you, right?

La Cena—Spanish for dinner. Yes, that’s your cooking and dining group.

That’s right. Once a year, the monthly meeting is an overnight affair at our place on Lake Huron. I know you love good food, and it sounded to me the other day like you’re a skilled cook. We want you to join us, fill the eighth chair.

I got the impression you had four couples, a full roster.

We did. But Carol is recently widowed, poor kid. She’s great people, works at FirstRealty with Megan. So did her late husband.

So your little group has an available female.

I see where you’re going with this. It’s about food, Mark, not date night. You’re being recruited for culinary appreciation and expertise, not manly virtue.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

You’re manly. Look, it’s an awesome gang, but no way intimidating. You can ease into the group a couple folks at a time, starting with a pair of them right now.

How is that?

Two of our little club, Jennifer and Todd Borden, want to consult an ace financial planner ASAP. Can you fit them in before the weekend?

Mark stared at a depressing blank appointment screen. He could meet Jeremy’s friends professionally and still decline to join the dinner club with the spare female later. All right, give me a phone number. I can see them this afternoon.

Super. And you’ll join us for the weekend?

I’ll tell you after I meet your two friends. It’s not a fix-up?

No way; but feel free to ask Jennifer and Todd about La Cena.

****

Mark assumed the Bordens would be in their forties like the Harts, and, he ruefully remembered, himself. When they arrived they were, on average, but the somber and mature Todd had about twenty years on the bubbly young Jennifer. Jeremy’s friends and Macomb Heights neighbors conjured up an image of Mutt and Jeff. The big, overweight research chemist had good features, but struck Mark as flaccid, pale, and out of shape. His firmly toned diminutive wife was attractive without make-up, although the image was a bit severe. Both needed to fire their hair stylists and were, even to Mark’s forgiving eye, casual about their dress.

He pushed the file he’d just read across his desk to Jennifer, who left it sitting before her. So, your financial house is in good order. I assume Jeremy told you I make my living helping the well-paid but financially inept dig themselves out. That’s not you guys. Why see me?

Todd opened his mouth but Jennifer got words out first. You’re right, we’re solid now, but Todd wants to quit his job to become an independent expert. He’s been with his company a long time, and it terrifies me. Jeremy said you’re the best one to advise us. Todd’s scheme can change everything.

Todd bestirred himself to speak. "I have a plan, not a scheme. He eagerly produced a second, thinner file. Here it is." He pushed it gently, lovingly across Mark’s desk.

Thanks. Help yourselves to more coffee and give me a few minutes with this.

Jennifer declined Java. From the corner of his eye, Mark saw Todd take an excessive amount of cream. Maybe his stomach was on edge. Four minutes later, looking like a hyper-active five year-old waiting for his birthday party to start, he asked, Well?

I nearly flunked chemistry, but you look great professionally as far as I can understand what it is you do. Your family income is going to take a huge initial hit for the first couple years. You’ll depend mainly on Jennifer’s bookstore?

Todd nodded eagerly. Jennifer held up a warning hand. We can’t depend on it. I have two silent partners and pay myself a buck-fifty over minimum wage. Publishing is not a growth industry. She softened this sober assessment with her first smile of the meeting. I don’t see how it all can work. Will you help us, Mark?

Nice people, and what else was he going to do tomorrow? Sure. I need to research Todd’s other assumptions. Can I keep your information and plan for a couple days?

Todd gushed, Absolutely. They’re all your copies. Boy, I’m getting so excited.

Jennifer pushed back her chair. Mark didn’t endorse the plan, Todd. Calm down. I think Ronald is egging you on with this consultant thing because he wants to go independent himself.

Ronald? Mark asked, partly to defuse blossoming spousal animosity.

Ronald is Jeremy’s brother-in-law, Megan’s brother. He’s a good person but a bit—well—unusual, like their parents.

Todd bestirred himself. "Ronald is not emotionally disturbed. There was one bad time year before last. His father is a nut job, and it makes Ronald look bad."

Jennifer raised a dubious eyebrow to Mark’s questioning one. Whatever. Mark, Ronald and his wife are good friends in our La Cena group. That reminds me, we’re really happy you’ll join us this weekend.

Mark hadn’t promised Jeremy that, but trapped, he said, I look forward to it. Well, thanks for coming in. I’ll be in touch soon. He saw them to the door, skeptical about Todd striking out on his own. He found them likeable, as he did most everybody, but the bright, timid scientist might be a minnow going out to swim with the big fish.

Before he could try to get comfy in a swivel chair he had not paid enough for, Jeremy telephoned. He claimed it was for a report on Mark’s meeting with the Bordens, but he moved swiftly to the sad information that Carol Champion’s check engine light was coming on. Probably nothing, but her guy couldn’t look at it until Monday. It would be wonderful if Mark could take her to the lake in his car. Mark agreed, but had the zero-choice feeling Chicago alderman elections brought forth.

****

Forty-eight short hours later, Mark’s voice was hoarse from yelling to Carol Champion as the wind-driven spray of Lake Huron water chilled his face. They were in eleven and twelve-foot kayaks and in trouble. He was a dunce. For the last twenty minutes, he was too busy stewing over the impression he made at lunch, especially the impression he made with her, to notice the developing storm. Carol, you have to go into the waves at forty-five degrees. If you go head-on your kayak will be full of water. If the wave hits you sideways you’ll tip.

That’s what I’m trying to do. The wind won’t let me.

It was true. This was an evil, threatening wind. Fear tinged her words, his too. After picking her up this morning, he was struck with how strong and self-assured she acted. At lunch, he’d added charming to the assessment. He flinched as more water splashed into the cockpit of Jeremy’s kayak. At any moment, they might get their narrow one-man boats flipped over, and he was guilty of bringing them out here and daydreaming as the storm gathered. He paddled his craft furiously to get between her—in Megan Hart’s smaller boat—and the wind.

Mark gauged the swimming distance to the shore. She was a swimmer, had a swimmer’s body, had rushed to the bluff to greet the lake like an old friend when they arrived at the Harts’ vacation home this morning. He was broad rather than lanky, with more of a wrestler’s build, and swimming was scarcely his strong suit, especially in a sweatshirt and jeans chosen for a crisp seventy-degree day. Still, he prepared to go in after her if her kayak tipped.

She called to him again, but he couldn’t make it out. If he cupped a hand to his ear, he’d lose precious forward strokes. She saw he couldn’t hear her and took the risk he was about to. She sacrificed a pair of left and right strokes to make a pointing gesture with her paddle. He turned his head, the wind resistance making him conscious of the effort involved in even that small thing, and got her meaning. There was a small, rocky point ahead of them, home to two grizzled and weather-beaten pine trees. If they could get around it unscathed, there might be calmer water on the far side. Not a guarantee, but the only shot they seemed to have.

He nodded in vigorous agreement and shouted, Okay. He got between her and the stinging wind, and now she was able to keep up with him. At the tip of the point, her kayak missed a vicious tilting outcrop by two feet. Taking a couple gallons into each boat as they faced the wind directly, they made the sweeping turn into still churning but manageable water.

They were safe. But so much for Jeremy’s promised sunny and relaxing outing on the water. If today’s activities marked the start of his social relationship with the Hart’s gourmet dining group, it was a dubious beginning. On the other hand, Carol was smiling now, a victory smile, aimed at him. He managed a return grin as they beached the kayaks.

My hero.

Nah, your navigation plan got us out of trouble.

The air was at least five degrees warmer off the lake and out of the wind. They fell to earth twenty feet from their landed boats, spent from paddling. Mark appreciatively took in the sweet, fresh smell of the tall grass. He stared up at the nearby vacant octagonal tower of the lighthouse and turned his gaze to Carol. She was attractive in repose, thick wavy blonde hair and a classic profile. She might be a gourmet cook, but it hadn’t damaged her waistline. He tightened his.

She had done well in the kayak. They had done well. It had been pleasant until the east wind started, grew, changed direction to north, and began maliciously pushing them away from the boulder-strewn shore. But they had beaten it and reached his destination. He waved at the tower built of now-discolored red brick and rusticated stone. That’s what I wanted us to see. What do you think?

Her eyes scanned the building. It’s nice, sturdy, has architectural interest. I never thought deeply about lighthouses. Is there as much variation in their design as the glossy calendar pictures suggest?

There is. Mark almost revealed how extensively he’d researched this subject and how this tower’s construction made unique early use of steel and reinforced concrete. But he retreated from showing off to a woman he’d known for less than eight hours. He was retreating from women in general. Plus, he suspected she was herself having a hard time as a widow at forty-one.

You okay? she asked.

Oh, sure; I’m just wool-gathering. If you want, we can walk over and look at the light keeper’s house.

I’d like that. I’m something of a frustrated architect. Dad said computers were going to make those jobs scarce, and talked me into a business degree instead. It’s the only thing I sometimes hold against him. But first I’d like five more minutes just lying here.

You bet; no problem. He could relax. Surveying the house would be neutral turf, no, better, her turf. He closed his eyes to demonstrate his agreement with her plan. Then he snuck a peek at her. Stunning.

Wait; what the hell was he thinking?

****

Carol saw Mark use the first five seconds of the five-minute rest sizing her up and was surprised she did not resent it. She gave him a grateful and friendly smile, a social version of the one she used at the beginning of a tense real estate closing. Then the alarm bell secreted in her skull sounded. Careful. She had buried a cheating husband four months ago and she shouldn’t be looking at this man, at any man. She shouldn’t have let Jeremy put her next to him.

A fix-up, if that was the scheme, was inappropriate. Or, were the Harts merely trying to fill James’ chair at dinner with a warm body capable of a culinary contribution? La Cena had been more dependent on James then she had. Her late husband hadn’t betrayed them.

The silence was too intimate for her. She propped herself on an elbow. I assume a lighthouse reflects the technology of its period, but it also apes the building styles and structural advances of the time?

Mark sat up as she appraised wide, reassuring shoulders. Yeah, maybe that’s what mostly interests me, the changes as Great Lakes shipping and lighting technology advanced. Other people just like towers or see romance in the loneliness, the solitary life.

She waved an arm at the large but crumbling wooden keeper’s house. I don’t know if I totally buy that solitude angle. That’s a large house to be solitary in. I’d guess this light keeper had a big family. My great-grandparents raised seven kids in a smaller house.

Lucky number, seven, he said and grinned—a warm, Midwestern grin.

Fifty feet separate the residence from the tower, Mark. Why aren’t they attached?

Maybe it was too hard to put a foundation into the shale. I don’t know.

She liked people who weren’t afraid to say they didn’t know. They both gazed at the house. We’re looking at the back of the place. The front could have some interesting porches, gables, or wooden folderol. Let’s go look.

That sounds good. He was up effortlessly and smoothly—she hadn’t seen him as an athlete. In full sight of the elaborately adorned Victorian front of the building, she let out a whistle of appreciation and took a few reckless backward steps over an uneven lawn to view it better. It’s fabulous. How did they get the taxpayers to pay for these verandas and scrollwork?

He came nearer, not too close, politely nearer. Labor was cheaper then.

Carol moved up to the front door and windows protected by the porch roof. The paint hues are distinguishable, at least three colors. This was a painted lady! It’s exciting, Mark. As they walked to the house she added, Megan told me there are a dozen or so grand Queen Anne homes in Huron Harbors, and most of them have been restored. She said the color combinations make her wonder if the Victorians were as sedate as reputed.

He nodded. From what I’ve read, they weren’t. We can drive through town on the way back to the city tomorrow and see those houses, if you want.

It was a kind offer, and he made it casually, but that cranial alarm sounded again. Was she attracted to him? Was it because he was a little like the early version of James? Don’t get close. She was signed up to have three more weekend meals with him and the others and would have to ride home in his car. That was enough commitment for a while. She invented, That’s a nice offer, but Megan already owes me that tour.

He nodded acceptance. Was he disappointed? She couldn’t tell. Megan seems a high-powered woman. Is she much involved in Jeremy’s business?

Oh, lord no. She had a recent promotion and she’s got a full plate where we work.

Of course, I don’t know where I got the idea.

His casualness struck Carol as elaborate. She wondered if something about Megan was bothering Mark? Or was it something about Jeremy?

Chapter Two

After securing the kayaks next to the Harts’ dock and vintage speedboat, Mark followed Carol up the stairs cut into the bluff, admiring the view with each step of her ascent. They entered Jeremy and Megan Hart’s rambling vacation home through the sunroom door. She thanked him for the adventure, warmly, he thought, and said she would go for a shower.

At his room he changed into a lighter shirt and reviewed the day. He had been uncomfortable when Jeremy asked him to pick up Carol, whom he’d never met. He agreed only because she had potential car trouble. The kayak trip had bad moments but ended well. Now, to his disquiet, he was drawn to the woman.

Was he drawn to the rest of them? The luncheon, a couple hours earlier, was fine, and with eight diners, the other seven intimate friends, the conversation flowed. While he’d known Jeremy for several months, today he met wife Megan for the first time. She was a textbook hostess, but he had an uneasy feeling she might not approve the proposed business partnership between him and her husband. Why?

La Cena was a tight little community. Besides Jeremy and Megan, Carol, and Todd and Jennifer Borden, one other couple completed the roster. These were Megan’s year-younger brother, the almost gaunt Ronald Barnes, and his full-bodied, fit spouse. They, unlike the Bordens, were if anything over-groomed. She was Scandinavian born, seemingly with that race’s placid self-assurance and residual north Atlantic chilliness. He’d forgotten her name, but it would eventually come to him.

Ronald confirmed at lunch that he was anxious to leave a tedious salaried job and strike out on his own. His wife was not supportive. Mark kept non-committal, urged caution, and resolved to stay out of the middle. Ronald hoped they could talk some more during the weekend. Mark hoped not.

He wandered into the kitchen to tell Megan they were back. This was the main kitchen, the television show kitchen that flowed into the huge sunroom nook where they’d had that delicious lunch with Greek salad, freshly made pita bread, and a crisp, transparent white wine the name of which he’d forgotten. Jeremy’s prediction of a weekend of exceptional dining had thus far been kept. If only he’d been a better weather forecaster.

Megan had a couple years on Mark at age forty-five, and Jeremy had three or four years on her. She was a brunette, looking like an early version of Martha Stewart—maybe it was just the kitchen—and was sipping at the end of the white wine from lunch while dicing tomatoes at the center counter. She was relaxed and amiable at noon, the perfect hostess, but now she looked tense and irritable. Maybe something went wrong with food preparation. We’re back.

She looked up abruptly as though he’d disturbed deep thoughts. Oh, good, did you two manage to stay dry in those little boats? The wind kicked up here.

It did there, too. It was a challenge. The lighthouse was as interesting as you said.

Good. It’s a magnet for photographers. Where’s Carol?

She’s gone to shower.

Ah. Want a glass of wine?

No, not yet, thanks. That food looks good.

The stuffed red peppers Italiano? I like them. I like green peppers, too, but the red are sweeter and a more subtle taste, I think.

So our theme tonight is southern Italy?

It’s just Italy. We’re serious foodies but not fanatics.

She struck Mark as a charming, open, and honest woman. He hazarded the question burning in his gut. Megan, I’m new to you folks and not at ease yet, so please don’t take this wrong. Are you comfortable with me joining your husband in business? I was wondering at lunch if you have some reservations.

Oh. She put the knife down and pushed it away, as though she felt threatened by it, or by something. "No, Mark. I’m sorry if I gave a wrong impression. Your good reputation precedes you. I’m a cautious person with an impulsive spouse. I’ve just been wondering if perhaps you and Jeremy should