Chapter 6 - The Feast of Fools
Inside the main mansion, the atmosphere was thick with triumphant arrogance.
Donna Whitaker was lounging in my antique French armchair in the great room, holding a cup of Earl Grey tea with her pinky finger extended.
She was wearing a silk bathrobe she had shamelessly taken from my private wardrobe closet.
Brandon was leaning against the grand marble fireplace, an unlit Cuban cigar between his teeth, reviewing guest lists on his tablet.
Matthew and his wife were sitting on the plush sofas, sipping mimosas and laughing about the real estate values in the neighborhood.
“I’m telling you, Matthew,” Brandon boomed, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, “the moment we move the old woman into the assisted living villa in Green Valley, we can renovate this whole wing.”
“We’ll knock down that ridiculous conservatory Thomas built and put in an infinity pool.”
Donna laughed, her voice like grinding glass.
“Make sure you throw out those awful antique rugs, Brandon.”
“They smell like old people and mothballs.”
“I’ve already ordered Italian marble for the grand foyer.”
Just then, the heavy double doors of the mansion swung wide open.
A freezing gust of winter wind swept through the entrance hall, rattling the crystal drops of the chandelier.
Brandon turned around with an irritated scowl, expecting to see the grocery delivery boy or the snowplow driver.
Instead, he saw me standing in the center of the foyer, flanked by Claire and Arthur Vance.
Behind us stood two uniformed county sheriff deputies, their hands resting neutrally near their duty belts.
Brandon’s face contorted into an ugly expression of sneering superiority.
“Margaret?” he scoffed, taking the cigar from his mouth.
“What is this circus?”
“Did you seriously bring Arthur Vance and the police because I hurt your fragile feelings over a dinner chair?”
“Claire, what the hell are you doing standing next to her?”
“Get over here right now and help Donna with the brunch preparations!”
Claire did not flinch.
She did not drop her gaze.
She took one firm, deliberate step forward, her voice ringing clear and steady across the marble floor.
“Do not speak to me ever again, Brandon.”
Brandon’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but his arrogance quickly masked it with cold laughter.
“Oh, look who found her tongue after thirty years of hiding behind Mommy.”
“You seem to forget who provides for this family, Claire.”
“You seem to forget whose name is on the company payroll!”
Donna stood up from the antique chair, pulling the stolen silk robe tightly around her waist, looking down her nose at us.
“Margaret, you are making an absolute fool of yourself,” Donna declared with smug condescension.
“Brandon is the head of this household now.”
“You had your time in the spotlight, but Thomas is dead and your era is over.”
“Be a graceful old lady and go to your room before you embarrass everyone further.”
I walked forward, the heels of my leather boots clicking rhythmically against the Italian tile.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I stopped five feet from Brandon, looking him directly in his hollow, deceitful eyes.
“You are standing in my house, Brandon.”
May you like
“You are breathing the air that my husband paid for.”
“And you have precisely seven minutes to explain why the sheriff shouldn’t drag you out through the snow in handcuffs.”
