Chapter 6 - The Mother’s Reckoning
At three o’clock that same afternoon, Margaret Miller was sitting in the gilded fitting room of an ultra-luxury boutique on Oak Street.
The salon was private, scented with rare jasmine and white tea, reserved only for clients who spent six figures annually.
Two young sales associates were kneeling beside her velvet stool, pinning the hem of an emerald-green silk evening gown.
Margaret sipped imported sparkling water from a crystal tumbler, watching her reflection in the gilded three-way mirror.
She adjusted the diamond collar necklace around her throat—a necklace Daniel had charged to Elena’s maternal trust account two months prior under the heading of "funeral pre-planning expenses."
"Make sure the waistline sits flat," Margaret instructed the tailor, her voice sharp and condescending.
"I will be hosting the annual Lake Shore winter gala from my personal ballroom this December."
"Every judge, alderman, and bank president in Cook County will be in attendance."
The senior stylist smiled subserviently.
"Of course, Mrs.
Miller."
"We will have the garment delivered directly to the Lake Shore Drive address by courier on Monday morning."
"See that you do," Margaret replied, placing her empty glass on the marble side table.
Her cell phone buzzed violently against the leather cushion beside her.
She glanced down at the screen, expecting to see Daniel calling to brag about his trip to the Cook County Registrar.
Instead, the caller ID showed the name of Dr.
Arthur Harris.
Margaret smiled, a cruel, satisfied smirk that pulled the tight skin across her cheekbones.
Already? she thought, feeling a thrill of pure triumph race through her veins.
The silly girl didn’t even make it through the afternoon.
She tapped the speaker icon and held the phone up to her ear with an air of theatrical melancholy.
"Dr.
Harris," Margaret answered, forcing a slight tremor into her voice.
"Has something happened to our poor Elena?"
"Is she... has she slipped away?"
The voice on the other end of the line was completely flat, devoid of any medical fatigue or grief.
"Mrs.
Miller, this is Dr.
Arthur Harris."
"I am calling to formally notify you that Room 412 has been vacated."
Margaret suppressed a burst of laughter, clasping a hand over her chest as if overcome by sorrow.
"Oh, heavens," she gasped for the benefit of the store clerks.
"My poor, sweet daughter-in-law."
"We knew her heart was fragile, but so soon..."
"Where have you transferred her remains, Doctor?"
"Daniel and I have already selected a modest plot in Oak Woods."
"Mrs.
Miller, you misunderstand," Dr.
Harris interrupted smoothly.
"Elena has not been transferred to a morgue."
"She walked out of this hospital twenty-five minutes ago through the main executive lobby."
Margaret froze.
The needle in the tailor's hand slipped, pricking the fabric of the emerald dress.
"What did you just say?" Margaret hissed, forgetting her grief entirely.
"Elena Vance is in perfect health," Dr.
Harris continued, his tone turning into cold, sharp steel.
"The myocardial necrosis symptoms you observed over the past five months were induced by digitalis compounding."
"The antidote was administered last evening."
"And the five-month supply of herbal capsules recovered from your guest bedroom pantry has been handed over to the Illinois State Police Forensics Division."
Margaret’s heart stopped dead in her chest.
The room seemed to spin on its axis.
"Digitalis?" she stammered, her voice turning shrill and cracked.
"What nonsense are you babbling about?"
"That girl has a chronic genetic defect!"
"Her father died of the same thing five years ago!"
"Her father is currently standing in the lobby of your son’s accounting firm, Mrs.
Miller," Dr.
Harris said quietly.
"And I believe you will find the gentlemen waiting outside your boutique have a great deal more to say on the matter."
The call went dead.
Margaret scrambled off the fitting stool, kicking the silk gown away from her ankles with frantic kicks.
"Madame, please, the pins!" the sales assistant cried out.
Margaret didn't hear her.
She grabbed her designer coat, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and bolted toward the glass front doors of the boutique.
She shoved the brass handle open and stepped out onto the cold stone sidewalk of Oak Street.
Waiting directly on the curb was a gleaming black Lincoln Continental with dark tinted windows.
Flanking the car were two plainclothes detectives wearing gold badges clipped to their lapels, alongside an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun.
Margaret recognized that woman instantly.
It was Evelyn Cross, the chief prosecuting attorney for the Cook County Special Crimes Bureau.
"Margaret Miller?" Evelyn asked, stepping forward without a shred of hesitation.
"What is this?" Margaret screamed, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield.
"Do you know who I am?"
"My son owns Miller Financial Solutions!"
"We own the Lake Shore Drive historical manor!"
Evelyn Cross didn't blink.
She pulled a folded white warrant from her overcoat pocket and opened it before Margaret's eyes.
"Your son doesn't own a bicycle, Margaret," Evelyn said coldly.
"Miller Financial was placed into federal receivership sixty minutes ago."
"And as for the Lake Shore Drive estate, you never had any legal claim to it whatsoever."
"We have an emergency arrest warrant issued by Judge Kenneth Albright."
"The charges are conspiracy to commit premeditated murder, intentional administration of a lethal controlled substance, and grand financial larceny."
"No!" Margaret shrieked, backing away toward the glass boutique window.
"This is a mistake!"
"Elena gave me those vitamins!"
"Elena asked me to buy them!"
"You can't prove anything!"
"We don't need to prove the vitamins, Margaret," Evelyn said calmly as the two detectives moved in and grabbed both of Margaret's wrists.
"Your son's secretary, Jennifer Vance, wore a wire during your private dinner at Carmine's two nights ago."
"We have forty-seven minutes of high-definition audio of you discussing exactly how many milligrams of digitalis it would take to stop Elena's heart before the weekend arrived."
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The handcuffs snapped around Margaret's wrists with a pair of cold, metallic clicks.
The shoppers along Oak Street stopped, pulling out their smartphones and recording the scene as the wealthy, arrogant matriarch of the Miller family was dragged toward the back door of the unmarked police cruiser, screaming obscenities into the cold Chicago wind.
