Chapter 8 - Lunch at the Club
The Carolina Country Club smelled of polished mahogany, old money, and expensive floral arrangements.
I arrived precisely at 12:28 PM. I wore a tailored cream trench coat, dark sunglasses, and had my hair pulled back into a sleek, professional chignon. The swelling on my lip had faded to a faint purple shadow, concealed beneath a layer of matte crimson lipstick.
Michael was already seated at a secluded corner table on the terrace, staring anxiously at the entrance. When he saw me, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked his water goblet over.
"Rachel," he breathed, stepping forward as if to hug me.
I held up one gloved hand, stopping him dead in his tracks three feet away. "Sit down, Michael."
He swallowed hard, shrinking back into his chair. He looked terrible. His shirt was unironed, his tie was slightly askew, and deep dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
"Thank you for coming," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't think you would."
"I'm here for an inventory review," I said, sitting down and placing my leather clutch squarely in the center of the white tablecloth. "Nothing more."
"Rachel, look... Mom was wrong. She knows she was wrong. The police took her mugshot, she spent three hours in a holding cell with... with common criminals! She's completely humiliated!"
"Good," I said evenly. "She assaulted me in my own home. A holding cell was the most appropriate place for her."
"She’s an old woman, Rachel!" Michael hissed, leaning across the table, his eyes darting around to see if any club members were listening. "She has high blood pressure! You can't let this go to trial! The DA's office told her lawyer this morning that because you have high-definition video of the incident, they aren't offering a diversion program. They want thirty days of jail time and three years of supervised probation!"
"Then she should hire a good defense lawyer," I replied, sipping from the water glass the server placed before me. "With what money, I don't know, considering Arthur's pension won't cover her legal retainers once the bank freezes their assets."
Michael’s face went chalk-white. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything, Michael. Sarah Vance notified First Piedmont Trust of the forged power of attorney at nine o'clock this morning. By nine-thirty, the bank's fraud unit had flagged the account. The three-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit Chloe drew from has been frozen. The thirty-eight thousand she pulled from our kitchen fund has been reported as stolen funds."
Michael grabbed the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned blue. "Are you insane? Chloe has the Mayor's Gala this Saturday! She already took a twenty-thousand-dollar non-refundable deposit from the planning committee! The food vendors need final cash payments by tomorrow afternoon, or they won't release the truffles, the beef, the wine—nothing!"
"Then Chloe will have to tell the Mayor's committee that she can't deliver," I said calmly.
"You don't understand!" Michael leaned closer, his voice dropping into a desperate, frantic whisper. "If Chloe fails to deliver this gala, the committee will sue her for breach of contract and fraud! And... and Rachel... the city building inspector visited her strip-mall storefront this morning. Someone tipped off the county health department that she was operating an unlicensed commercial food enterprise!"
I tilted my head, looking at him with genuine curiosity. "Who could possibly have done that?"
Michael stared at me, realization dawning behind his bloodshot eyes. "You did. You called the health inspector."
"An operational consultant never ignores code violations, Michael," I said softly. "It's a matter of public safety."
Before Michael could respond, the terrace doors swung open.
Chloe Bennett marched onto the patio, her face blotchy from crying, accompanied by none other than Evelyn Bennett herself. Evelyn was wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk headscarf, looking like a disgraced minor celebrity trying to evade the paparazzi.
They weren't here to apologize.
Evelyn marched right up to our table, slammed both hands down on the linen cloth, and leaned down until her face was inches from mine.
May you like
"You listen to me, you spiteful little sociopath," Evelyn whispered, venom practically spraying from her lips. "You are going to cook that gala dinner. You are going to step into that kitchen on Saturday, prep two hundred plates, and save this family’s name. Or I swear to God, I will ruin you."
***
