Chapter 3 - The Price of Linen
"I must give credit to your mother’s diner," Cordelia said, her voice conversational, almost light, as she walked toward the side of my bed. "It gave you a remarkable constitution. Most women from your background would have suffered a total system failure after a thirty-foot drop. The doctors are quite fascinated by your liver function."
She reached out and adjusted the plastic IV tubing hanging above my head, her white-gloved fingers moving with the efficiency of a woman arranging roses in a vase.
"But then, you were always sturdy, weren't you? That was what Adrian found so attractive in the beginning. He has always been a fragile boy. His father was the same way—susceptible to heavy weather. He needed someone who could carry things. But you didn't just want to carry his luggage, Lillian. You wanted to carry his ledger."
She stopped near my right shoulder. The scent of her perfume—that heavy, powdered iris—clogged my nostrils. It was the exact smell that had filled my mouth as I lay on the wet stone terrace, gasping for air while the fountain gurgled three feet away.
"You found the offshore accounts in Grand Cayman," she said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming flat and cold. "Don't bother denying it with your eyes. I know you found them. You called Jonah Mercer's office twice last week from the library phone. We have the logs from the estate router, my dear. We aren't entirely primitive."
She leaned closer, her pearls clicking against each other as she bent over my face. I could see the fine powder in the lines around her mouth, the small veins in her eyelids.
"Seven million dollars from the foundation’s pediatric wing fund," she whispered. "That’s what you were looking for. It wasn't stolen, Lillian. It was... relocated. The Voss name requires a certain level of maintenance that the current interest rates simply do not support. We have three hundred years of history to preserve. Do you really think a few clinics in the south side of the city are more important than the preservation of the family that built this town?"
She stood up straight again, walking to the window to adjust the blinds, casting long, dark bars of shadow across my white cast.
"Adrian didn't want to do it," she said, her back to me. "He cried in my office the night we realized you had the transfer receipts. He kept saying, 'Lily loves me, Mother, she won't say anything.' He is so painfully naive. I told him, 'Adrian, an accountant does not love anyone more than she loves a balanced column. She will destroy us for the sheer pleasure of being correct.'"
She turned back to face me, her face split by the shadow of the blinds.
"And so, the balcony. It was a very good plan, really. The contractor—Mr. Miller—had quite a few gambling debts that the foundation was able to clear through an intermediary in Chicago. He was more than happy to ensure the cedar support beams were... less than structurally sound. It was supposed to look like a terrible accident during the gala. A young wife, perhaps a bit too much champagne, leaning over to look at the garden... and then, peace."
She sighed, a small, genuine sound of annoyance.
"But you had to hold on to that oak tree. You always were so dreadfully stubborn."
Inside the cast, my hand was trembling, but I held my thumb steady against the device. Keep talking, I thought. Keep talking, you arrogant old bitch. Give me every name. Give me every date.
"The police were very polite," Cordelia continued, walking back to my side. "Detective Vance is an old friend of the family. His son’s tuition at Princeton was handled through one of our academic trusts. He saw the report, saw the name Voss, and understood immediately that an extensive investigation would only cause unnecessary pain to a grieving family. He closed the file this afternoon. It’s an accident, Lillian. Officially and permanently."
May you like
She reached down and touched the edge of the pillow beneath my head. Her white glove was cold against my cheek.
"Which leaves us with the current problem," she whispered. "The doctors say you might stay like this for years. A silent monument to your own curiosity. But seven million dollars is a lot of money to keep tied up in a probate court while we wait for your heart to stop. And more importantly... I don't like things that are half-finished."
