Chapter 3 - Blood and Bruises
Across the corridor, in the hotel's secondary holding suite, Beatrice Vance was unraveling.
The veneer of aristocratic dignity she had spent sixty-seven years constructing had completely fractured. Her silver hair, previously coiffed in an immaculate chignon, was wild and coming loose around her wrinkled temples. Her designer pearl necklace had snapped when Officer Miller had handcuffed her, and hundreds of cream-colored pearls had rolled into the heating vents of the floor.
Preston was pacing the perimeter of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. The burly, forty-year-old man had completely collapsed into a sniveling wreck.
"You told me it was foolproof!" Preston wept, wiping snot from his upper lip with the cuff of his ruined tuxedo. "You said nobody would question it! You said I’d just start a scene about my phone, the guards would check her little purse and pockets, the phone would be there, and then the brooch would fall out! You said Evelyn would take the fall to protect Sophie from juvenile court!"
"Shut your miserable mouth, Preston!" Beatrice hissed from the armchair where she sat, her wrists bound behind her back with standard-issue steel cuffs. "Every word you say is being recorded by those microphones in the ceiling! Have you learned nothing from your father?"
"Dad hated you!" Preston screamed, spinning around to face his mother. His eyes were bloodshot, his face mottled with purple patches of panic. "Dad knew what you were! He was rewriting the will to give Evelyn sixty percent of the estate because he found out about your accounts in the Caymans! That’s why you took the brooch from his room while he was dying! You couldn't bear the thought of Evelyn having more than us!"
"I took that brooch to secure your future, you ungrateful parasite!" Beatrice snarled, her aristocratic voice transforming into something venomous and gutter-born. "Who paid off your gambling markers in Atlantic City? Who covered your margin calls when your hedge fund blew up in 2018? Who bought the silence of that girl in Newport? I did! With your father’s money! And now you stand there blubbering like an infant because a security guard happened to look at a monitor!"
The heavy oak door swung open with a resounding thud.
Detective Vance walked in, accompanied by two armed state troopers. Behind them stood Evelyn.
When Preston saw his sister, he fell to his knees. "Evelyn... Evie, please. You have to tell them to drop the assault charges. I didn't mean to hit Sophie that hard! The menu board... it was an accident! I lost my temper! You know how I get when I'm stressed!"
Evelyn looked down at her older brother. For thirty years, she had spent her life excusing his tantrums, cleaning up his messes, and absorbing the emotional abuse he and their mother dished out like casual dinner conversation. She had been taught that family came before dignity, that loyalty meant absorbing blows so the family name wouldn't crack.
She looked at Preston’s expensive Italian leather shoes, then up into his pleading, tear-streaked eyes.
"You hit my child," Evelyn said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, subterranean weight that made Preston physically shrink backward against the wall. "You swung an eight-pound slab of walnut wood at an eight-year-old girl who trusted you. She made you a Father’s Day card last year because she felt bad that you were alone. Do you remember that, Preston?"
Preston buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with ragged sobs.
"And you," Evelyn said, turning to Beatrice.
Beatrice lifted her chin, struggling to maintain her posture despite the handcuffs biting into her wrists. "You always were theatrical, Evelyn. Just like your father. You think you've won something here? You think a local district attorney will dare bring formal charges against the Vance name? We have the best defense attorneys in New England on retainer. By tomorrow morning, this will be classified as a tragic family dispute. The footage will be suppressed. The brooch was simply being returned to the family collection. You will have nothing."
Evelyn walked slowly toward her mother until she was standing less than two feet away. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
"Do you recognize this, Mother?"
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "What trash is that?"
"It’s not trash," Evelyn said smoothly. "It’s a copy of Dad’s medical directive from October 14, 2014. The night he died. Do you remember who was designated as his legal medical proxy?"
Beatrice’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp dread.
"It wasn't you, Mother," Evelyn continued, her voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "Dad revoked your power of attorney three days before he died. He named me. And as his medical proxy, I authorized the attending physician to conduct a full post-mortem toxicology screen. I kept those records sealed in a private vault with my lawyer for ten years, because Dad begged me not to tear the family apart unless you pushed me to the absolute brink."
Beatrice’s skin turned the color of damp parchment. "You wouldn't dare."
"The lethal dose of midazolam in his blood was three times the palliative care limit," Evelyn said. "Dad didn't slip into a peaceful coma from pulmonary failure, Mother. He was put to sleep. And twenty minutes after his heart stopped, the Sovereign Emerald was taken from his wall safe."
Detective Vance stepped forward, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapping them onto his hands.
"Beatrice Vance," the detective said, his voice ringing out like a death knell in the small room. "You are under arrest for attempted grand larceny, conspiracy to commit fraud, child endangerment, and the physical abuse of a minor. Furthermore, based on new evidence presented regarding the 2014 death of Arthur Vance, you are being detained as a person of interest in a homicide investigation."
"No!" Beatrice shrieked, thrashing against the chair as the two state troopers moved in to haul her to her feet. "You cannot do this! I am a Vance! Call Marcus Holloway! Call the attorney general!"
"You have the right to remain silent," Detective Vance recited calmly, nodding to the troopers. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
As they dragged the screaming matriarch through the door, Preston remained on the carpet, clutching Evelyn's ankle.
"Evie... please... don't let them take me to Suffolk County jail. The people I owe money to... they have people inside! Evie, they’ll kill me!"
Evelyn looked down at her brother’s hand gripping her shoe. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped backward, wrenching her foot from his grasp.
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"You should have thought about that before you put your hands on my daughter," Evelyn said.
***
