Chapter 8 - The Boutique of Lies
By the third day after the "luncheon from hell,"
the news of Constance Keene’s arrest had hit the local papers.
The headline read:
“Socialite Accused of Multi-Million Dollar Fraud.”
The community was in an uproar.
The women I had served tea to only days ago were now scrub-bbing their social media profiles of any association with the Keenes.
But I didn't have time to enjoy the irony.
I was focused on Brooke’s boutique.
Brooke,
Derek’s younger sister,
had always been the "golden child,"
the one who needed "just a little help" with her business ventures.
I had spent countless nights reviewing her contracts and setting up her inventory systems.
But as I dug into the second half of the gray folder,
I realized that "The Velvet Rose" boutique was never meant to sell clothes.
It was a washing machine.
Every dollar Constance "saved" on taxes was funneled through Brooke’s shop.
I found receipts for inventory that didn't exist.
I found payroll records for employees who were actually Constance’s domestic staff.
And then,
I found the biggest lie of all.
Derek was listed as the majority owner of the boutique.
Not Brooke.
He had set his own sister up as the face of the business to insulate himself from the paper trail.
“He’s smarter than I thought,”
I muttered,
rubbing my eyes.
My mother walked in,
carrying a fresh pot of coffee.
“He’s not smart,
Mallory,”
she corrected.
“He’s just practiced.”
“He’s been watching his mother do this since he was a teenager.”
“He learned from the best.”
I pointed to a specific line in the PI’s report.
“He’s been making weekly transfers to an account in Grand Cayman for three years.”
“Totaling nearly four hundred thousand dollars.”
That was the money from my grandfather.
That was the money I thought we were using to pay off our student loans.
I felt a wave of nausea.
I had been married to a ghost.
A man who had calculated every "I love you" against the balance of a hidden bank account.
“We need to find out who helped him,”
I said.
“He couldn't have done the international transfers alone.”
My mother leaned over the table,
her eyes narrowing as she looked at the names on the documents.
“Look at the notary on this transfer,”
she said,
pointing to a signature at the bottom.
I squinted at the faded ink.
The name was familiar.
It was the same lawyer who was currently representing Constance.
Mr. Sterling.
The Keenes’ "family friend" was the one facilitating the theft.
“It’s a closed loop,”
I realized.
“They all protect each other.”
“Which means when one falls,”
“they all fall,”
my mother finished.
I picked up the phone.
It was time to call the state prosecutor.
If they wanted a witness who knew where every body was buried,
I was ready to talk.
But first,
I had an appointment.
A meeting Derek had begged for through his new lawyer.
He wanted to "negotiate."
He wanted to see Hazel.
I agreed to the meeting,
but only on my terms.
In a public place.
May you like
With my mother.
And with a digital recorder in my pocket.
