Chapter 4 - THE DEAD MAN’S COMPANYEleanor Whitmore answered my call on the second ring.
“Claire, darling. Is everything all right?”
It almost broke me.
Almost.
I had been closer to Eleanor than to my own mother during the last decade of my mother’s life. She was difficult, elegant, opinionated, and incapable of pretending to like bad coffee.
But she loved me.
At least I believed she did.
Now belief itself felt dangerous.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“I need to see you.”
A pause.
“Is Grant with you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Longer.
“Come.”
Eleanor lived in Pasadena in the same stone house where Grant grew up.
I arrived at 8:12.
Rachel came with me.
So did the watch.
Eleanor opened the door herself.
She took one look at my face and said, “He finally did something unforgivable.”
Not a question.
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
She stepped aside.
“I knew something was wrong.”
We followed her into the library.
I placed the velvet box on the table.
“Happy birthday.”
She frowned.
Then opened it.
The blood drained from her face.
“Where did you get this?”
“Grant’s secretary.”
Eleanor slowly sat down.
Rachel remained silent.
“She was wearing it,” I said.
Eleanor closed the box.
“Is he sleeping with her?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes shut.
Not shock.
Disappointment.
“I warned him.”
That hurt.
“You knew about Vanessa?”
“No. I warned him years ago that he had inherited his father’s most dangerous weakness.”
“What weakness?”
“Thinking success excused dishonesty.”
I sat opposite her.
“I need to ask about Daniel Mercer.”
Everything changed.
Eleanor’s eyes snapped open.
“Why?”
“Who was he?”
“You know who Daniel was.”
“I know he and Thomas were friends.”
“My husband trusted him.”
“And?”
Eleanor looked at Rachel.
I introduced her.
“My attorney.”
That didn’t reassure Eleanor.
Good.
“What happened between Thomas and Daniel?” I asked.
She stood and walked toward the fireplace.
“Why are you asking?”
“RVR Strategic Holdings lists Daniel as its beneficiary.”
A glass slipped from Eleanor’s hand.
It hit the rug without breaking.
For several seconds she stared at it.
Then she whispered:
“That company still exists?”
Rachel and I exchanged a glance.
“You know RVR?”
Eleanor sat again.
“Riverside Venture Reserve.”
Samuel had searched that abbreviation for hours.
Eleanor knew immediately.
“It was created in 1998,” she said. “Thomas and Daniel formed it to acquire distressed industrial property.”
“Whose property?”
“Originally? Several parcels near the old freight corridor.”
My stomach tightened.
My father had owned property near that corridor.
“What happened?”
“Daniel died. Thomas dissolved their active partnership.”
“But RVR survived.”
Eleanor stared into the distance.
“Apparently.”
I showed her the ownership chart.
She studied it.
Then her finger touched one subsidiary.
“Hartwell Industrial Two.”
My breath caught.
“You recognize it?”
“Your father’s company.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
“Claire, your father knew Thomas and Daniel.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father never mentioned them.”
“Because they had a falling-out.”
I tried to process it.
My father, Jonathan Hartwell, died twelve years earlier.
I met Grant sixteen years ago.
Was our marriage somehow connected to business relationships that predated us?
“What happened between them?”
Eleanor looked miserable.
“In 2001, your father accused Daniel of manipulating valuations on a joint development.”
“Fraud?”
“He threatened litigation.”
“Did he sue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“Did Thomas know?”
“Yes.”
“And did he support Daniel?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Then Thomas discovered Jonathan was right.”
Silence.
“What did he do?”
“He forced Daniel out of several ventures.”
“But not RVR.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought RVR was dissolved.”
I pulled out the transfer records.
“Nearly four million dollars has moved into it using authorizations bearing my name.”
Eleanor’s hand covered her mouth.
“Grant?”
“I believe so.”
“No.”
The word came instantly.
Not denial of evidence.
A mother’s reflex.
Then she saw my face.
Her certainty collapsed.
“Claire, he wouldn’t.”
“He forged my signature.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I know I didn’t sign it.”
She looked away.
My phone rang.
Grant.
I rejected it.
Immediately another call came.
Eleanor’s house phone.
She stared at me.
It rang four times.
Then stopped.
Her cell phone lit.
GRANT.
“He knows I’m here,” I said.
Eleanor frowned.
“How?”
I checked my phone.
Location sharing.
Our family account.
I disabled it.
Too late.
Headlights swept across the library windows.
Grant’s car.
Rachel stood.
“Do you want me to ask him to leave?”
“No.”
I was done running between rooms while Grant decided what truth belonged where.
“Let him in.”
Eleanor opened the door.
Grant entered looking furious.
Then saw Rachel.
He controlled himself.
“Mom.”
“Don’t Mom me.”
His expression shifted.
“Claire shouldn’t be dragging you into this.”
Eleanor slapped him.
I had never seen Eleanor strike anyone.
Grant froze.
Rachel looked at the floor.
Eleanor’s voice trembled.
“Did you give another woman my birthday present?”
Of all the accusations, that was the one that broke her composure.
“Mom, I can explain.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
She slapped him again.
“Eleanor,” I said softly.
She stepped back.
Grant touched his cheek.
Then looked at me.
“Happy?”
“No.”
That answer seemed to unsettle him.
He turned to Rachel.
“This is a private family matter.”
She smiled without warmth.
“Not anymore.”
I put the RVR chart on the table.
“Tell us about Daniel Mercer.”
Grant’s expression became unreadable.
“Where did you get that?”
“You keep asking the wrong question.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“You knew RVR was still active?”
Grant said nothing.
“Grant?”
“Yes.”
Eleanor sank into the nearest chair.
“How long?”
“Years.”
“What have you done?”
He looked at her.
“Protected this family.”
She laughed bitterly.
“By stealing from your wife?”
“I didn’t steal.”
I pointed to the transfers.
“What would you call that?”
“A bridge.”
“To where?”
“A transaction that would have multiplied the company’s value.”
“With my property.”
“With assets connected to the company.”
“My inheritance.”
“Claire, those properties have been integrated into our financial structure for years.”
“Not ownership.”
His jaw tightened.
“We don’t have time for technical arguments.”
Rachel almost smiled.
“Those technical arguments are my favorite kind.”
Grant ignored her.
He looked at me.
“Monday’s restructuring has to happen.”
“No.”
“If it doesn’t, we could lose the West Harbor acquisition.”
“Then lose it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He paced toward the fireplace.
“For two years, Whitmore Meridian has been acquiring options around the freight corridor.”
The same corridor.
“Why?”
“A new transportation and technology zone is planned there.”
Rachel interrupted.
“Publicly announced?”
“No.”
My eyes narrowed.
“How do you know?”
Grant didn’t answer.
Rachel did.
“That could be material nonpublic information.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
“Then where did the information come from?”
Grant looked at his mother.
Eleanor whispered, “Oh, God.”
“What?” I asked.
She stared at him.
“You used Daniel’s files.”
Grant’s face hardened.
“What files?” I asked.
Eleanor stood.
“Daniel kept records from the old city redevelopment commission.”
“Historical records?” Rachel asked.
“Some. But before he died, Daniel claimed certain transportation routes were being reconsidered.”
“Twenty years later?”
“Plans get revived.”
Grant interrupted.
“This has nothing to do with insider information.”
“Then what does it have to do with?” I demanded.
He looked at me.
“The land is worth ten times what it was worth three years ago.”
“And RVR has been buying it?”
“Options.”
“With money transferred from assets carrying my name.”
“Temporarily.”
“You forged my authorization.”
“I authorized it under marital authority.”
Rachel laughed outright.
Grant glared at her.
“That is not a thing,” she said.
I felt strangely calm.
“Who is D.M.?”
Grant froze.
Rachel watched closely.
Eleanor frowned.
“D.M.?”
I pulled up the email.
Grant immediately reached for my phone.
I stepped back.
“Who is it?”
He said nothing.
Then a new voice came from the library doorway.
“Me.”
We all turned.
A man in his early sixties stood there.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
A scar beside his left eye.
Eleanor went white.
Grant whispered, “What are you doing here?”
The man looked at him.
“Cleaning up your mess.”
Eleanor gripped the back of a chair.
“No.”
I looked between them.
“Who are you?”
The man smiled faintly.
“David Mercer.”
My confusion deepened.
Eleanor whispered, “Daniel’s younger brother.”
May you like
David looked at me.
“And apparently the only person in this room who knows why your father never sued mine.”
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