Chapter 4 - THE PUPPET MASTER'S TEA
The Westchester airfield was swept by horizontal sheets of freezing rain. The charter vehicle was waiting on the tarmac—a heavily modified, lifted Land Rover Defender with commercial-grade winches, chains on all four tires, and high-intensity spotlights mounted to the roof rack.
Before I could reach the driver’s door, a sleek black town car cut across the tarmac, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt, stopping five feet from my bumper.
The rear door opened. Victoria Crestmont stepped out into the biting wind.
She had abandoned her black satin jacket for a floor-length sable coat, but the storm had already ruined her immaculate hair. Strands of silver whipped across her pale, taut face. She didn't look like the untouchable matriarch of Park Avenue anymore; she looked like a woman who had just realized the floor beneath her feet was made of rotting wood.
"Clara!" she shouted over the howl of the wind.
I stopped, my hand resting on the cold metal door handle of the Defender. Two security guards stepped out of the black car behind her, but they remained near the doors, clearly uneasy. Arthur had already notified the private security firm handling the Crestmont accounts that their invoices were being contested; the men knew that any illegal action tonight would result in zero legal protection and zero pay.
"Get back in your car, Victoria," I said, my voice steady against the gale. "The temperature is dropping, and your joints aren't as young as your surgeon claims."
Victoria walked toward me, her eyes burning with an aristocratic fury that bordered on madness. "You insolent little ingrate. Margaret Vale was a merchant’s daughter who got lucky in real estate. The Crestmont name gave you legitimacy! It gave your daughter a lineage that money cannot buy!"
"The Crestmont name," I replied coldly, "is currently synonymous with forged notarizations and wire fraud. By tomorrow afternoon, the Crestmont name won't be able to secure a table at an Applebee’s, let alone the Metropolitan Club."
Victoria reached out, her gloved fingers clawing at the sleeve of my coat. "You listen to me! Julian made mistakes. He got involved with that cheap, scheming little whore Celeste, yes. He was careless with the trust funds, yes! But he is Lily’s father. If you destroy him, you destroy her name forever. You destroy her inheritance!"
I pulled my arm back with such force that Victoria stumbled against the wet side of the Land Rover.
"Her inheritance is Vale money, Victoria. Not a single cent of Crestmont wealth has existed since your late husband ran your family foundry into bankruptcy in 1984. My grandmother paid off your family debts. My grandmother funded Julian’s education. My grandmother bought the very townhouse you sleep in. You haven't been aristocrats for forty years—you’ve been parasites living off an old woman's generosity!"
Victoria gasped, her chest heaving beneath the heavy fur. "We gave you a family! You were an orphan, Clara! A pathetic, lonely girl raised by an old woman who spent her life counting nickels! Julian loved you!"
"Julian loved my signature on a transfer slip," I said, leaning in until Victoria was forced to look into my eyes. "And you... you sat by my bedside at the clinic two weeks ago. You watched the nurse inject me with Haloperidol until my tongue was so swollen I couldn't speak. You leaned over me and whispered that Lily had stopped asking for me. You told me she was calling Celeste 'Mommy.'"
Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. For the first time, a flicker of genuine terror crossed her features.
"I was drugged, Victoria," I whispered, every word carved from ice. "But I wasn't deaf. And I didn't forget."
"Clara, please," she stammered, the arrogance finally draining from her posture, leaving behind the frail, terrified shell of an old woman whose world was ending. "Don't take the house. It’s all I have left. Julian owes twenty million to private creditors in London. If the trust calls in the collateral, they will take the townhouse. They will take everything."
"Then I suggest you start packing your bags tonight," I said, opening the door of the Defender and stepping up into the driver’s seat. "Because Arthur Cross has already filed an emergency writ of eviction on the grounds that the property was purchased with commingled, fraudulent trust assets. You have seventy-two hours to vacate. Leave the silver. It belonged to Margaret."
"You're a monster," Victoria spat, tears of pure hatred welling in her rimed eyes.
"No, Victoria," I said, looking down at her as I turned the ignition, the powerful V8 engine roaring to life with a low, predatory rumble. "I'm a mother who just got out of the clinic you put me in. Now get out of my way before I run you down."
May you like
I slammed the heavy door, threw the transmission into gear, and cut the steering wheel hard. The tires sprayed a sheet of freezing slush across the lower hem of Victoria’s sable coat as the Defender surged forward, breaking through the airfield gates and heading north toward the Catskill Mountains.
***
