Chapter 5 - The First Course
The dinner began with a delicate lobster bisque, served in gold-rimmed porcelain bowls.
I moved around the long mahogany table with practiced grace, serving the guests using only my left hand. Derek sat at the head of the table, flanked by Michael Stanton on his right and his father on his left. He was in his absolute element—gesturing grandly with his wine glass, telling inflated stories about his court wins, and basking in the envious looks of his junior colleagues.
"I tell you, Michael," Arthur Bennett boasted loudly over his soup, "Derek has had this killer instinct since he was in little league. When he sets his sights on a target, he doesn't let anything get in his way."
"That he does, Arthur," Michael said gruffly, though his tone was noticeably restrained. He was constantly checking his smartphone, which sat vibrating silently beside his bread plate. "Derek is certainly... ambitious."
"Ambitious and thorough!" Derek chimed in, taking a heavy gulp of his Cabernet. "That’s what this firm needs moving forward, Michael. Modern vision. Aggressive growth. No weak links."
"Speaking of weak links," Victoria laughed lightly from down the table, "I don't know how Monica managed to blend this bisque with a broken arm! Derek, you really ought to take her on a European cruise after your partnership announcement to make it up to her."
Derek let out a booming laugh, waving his hand dismissively. "Oh, Monica loves taking care of the house. Don't you, darling? Besides, a little hard work never killed anyone. It keeps her grounded."
A few guests offered polite, uncomfortable chuckles, but Eleanor nodded in agreement. "A wife’s place is supporting her husband's success, Victoria. Injuries or not."
I finished placing the final soup bowl down beside Julianna Stanton. As I leaned down near her ear, I whispered very softly, so only she could hear:
"Make sure you check your private email before the main course, Julianna. The photos came out beautifully."
Julianna froze mid-sip, her spoon rattling loudly against the edge of her porcelain bowl. She spun her head around to look at me, her eyes wide with sudden, sickening terror.
I simply offered her a sweet, serene smile and walked back toward the kitchen doors.
Inside the kitchen, I checked the large brass clock on the wall. It was seven-forty-five.
Outside, the snow was beginning to fall heavily again, blowing thick white sheets against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room. I stepped over to the wine cooler, pulling out four bottles of vintage red wine that had been decanting since five o'clock.
Beside the decanters lay a stack of twenty thick, black custom-printed menu booklets I had picked up from the local print shop that morning while Derek was at the country club.
The front cover of each booklet was made of heavy, silver-embossed cardstock. On the outside, it read in beautiful script: Derek Bennett’s 40th Birthday: A Celebration of Legacy and Truth.
On the inside, however, were not the descriptions of the prime rib or the chocolate souffle.
Inside were high-resolution color printouts of Derek’s hidden bank accounts, the wire transfers stealing from Michael Stanton’s trust fund, the photos of Derek and Julianna entering the downtown apartment, and a copy of the official police domestic violence complaint I had filed at the hospital.
May you like
I picked up the stack of booklets, setting them carefully onto a large mahogany serving tray.
It was time to serve the main course.
