Cook the Books

put everything together.”
    Hank glared at me. “Nice try, but I’m not buying it. God, Kyle, after all the opportunities I’ve given you? You’ve had your miserable life handed to you on a platter, and yet you somehow manage to screw up even the most menial job! Do you think I got where I am today by acting like a tool? Do you think that beautiful women will get within ten feet of a cheat like you? God, no wonder you’ve never been married,” Hank screamed, laughing viciously. “I try and I try and I just get nowhere with you. I’m disgusted!”
    As the chef continued his onslaught, I tried to block out the barrage of insults. The painful scene pointedly reminded me of my client Danny and his abusive, controlling, condescending father. I thought about my classmate’s comment that Danny’s father had spent so many years foretelling his son’s failure that his predictions had become self-fulfilling prophecies. In Hank Boucher’s eyes, Kyle had failed over and over. I suspected that he’d left me stuck with most of the cookbook work not because he was lazy, but because he assumed that nothing he produced would satisfy his demanding father.
    “And if you think for one minute that I’m buying this crap about your intense involvement in this book, then you better think again. Idiot!”
    “Dad, I’m sorry,” Kyle pleaded pathetically. “Let’s just leave.” He started to look at me and then quickly turned away.
    “Yes, of course we’re leaving, dumbass!” Hank shook his head at his son and then walked slowly over to me. Suddenly his voice was soft and calm. “Chloe Carter, you have done remarkable work. You should be proud of yourself. The chapter I read was outstanding. Crisp, clear, engaging. The recipes were formatted precisely, and the directions were easy to follow. Good work.” He stuck his hand out, and I had no choice but to shake it. The monster! I was too flabbergasted and too sorry for Kyle even to mutter perfunctory thanks.
    I silently retrieved Kyle’s and Hank’s coats, and then opened the door. Hank held his head high as he walked out and continued to lavish unwanted praise on me. “Fabulous, my dear. Nicely done! I’ll be in touch.”
    I touched Kyle’s arm as he left. He turned his head slightly my way. “I’m so, so sorry.”
    “It’ll be fine. This will blow over, and we’ll keep working on the cookbook. You’ll see,” I tried to reassure him.
    “No. You don’t get it. It’s over for me. I just... I’m sorry.” He rushed out the door to catch up with his father.
    I looked at my coffee table, still covered in serving dishes that held the food that I’d slaved over. What moments ago had been a gorgeous display of culinary delights now looked hopelessly sad to me; I had never intended to have my cooking and my work used against Kyle. I helped myself to an oyster and pondered Hank’s outburst. As a budding social worker, I knew that Hank’s behavior must be rooted in his own past. He’d probably grown up in a terrible family and was now passing on his pain to his son. Still! I just couldn’t understand how any father could treat his son that way, especially in front of someone else. Granted, Hank had given Kyle the chance to write the cookbook, but he seemed to have done so mainly to create an opportunity to belittle his son. Of course, Kyle was rather incompetent, but how the hell was anyone expected to succeed under Hank Boucher’s cruel guidance? That demeaning, abusive, hateful scene was tantamount to emotional murder.
    Murder. It occurred to me that Hank was in Boston when Digger died. Kyle and Hank were supposed to meet me at Digger’s that morning. When they’d arrived in the rented Hummer, Hank had been driving, so he’d obviously had Digger’s address, and might have had it the previous evening or in the early morning. And Hank was certainly a horrible person, maybe horrible enough to commit murder. Look how he had exploded at Kyle! And right in front of me. I hated to imagine how his temper flared when there were no witnesses. But what possible motive could he have had for killing Digger? As far as I knew, Hank had never even met Digger.
    I nibbled on shrimp-and-Brie puffs and gave silent thanks for having parents who loved me, who wanted the best for me, and who would never, ever subject me to public humiliation.
     

EIGHTEEN
     
    ON Thursday, four days after the appetizer disaster, I still hadn’t heard from Kyle or Hank. I couldn’t bear