Chapter 5 - The Owner Takes the Stand
I stopped five feet from their daybed, folding my hands gracefully in front of my ivory trousers.
Detective Miller and the two deputies took positions directly behind Marcus and Isla, their hands resting loosely on their utility belts.
"I’m wearing my working clothes, Marcus," I said, my voice carrying effortlessly across the silent pool deck. "The clothes I wore when I signed the commercial mortgage on this resort ten years ago."
Isla let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that sounded like cracking plastic.
"Commercial mortgage?" Isla scoffed, pointing an accusing finger at me. "Marcus, your mother has lost her mind! The sun has fried her brain! She’s an old retired cleaning lady who lives on a fixed pension in a two-bedroom apartment!"
"Isla, shut up," Marcus rasped, grabbing her wrist so hard she winced. "Shut your mouth right now."
"No, Marcus, you tell them!" Isla screamed, wrenching her arm free. "Tell these guards that this crazy old woman is just your dependent! Tell them she came here to fold our towels and watch Toby!"
I turned my head slightly, looking at Sarah.
"Sarah," I said quietly. "For the benefit of the pool deck, would you please state for the public record who owns the Ocean Crest Resort and its seventeen affiliated properties across the Atlantic coast?"
Sarah stepped forward, holding her clipboard high.
"The Ocean Crest Resort is owned, operated, and controlled entirely by the Whitman Hospitality Trust," Sarah announced in a clear, resonant voice. "The sole registered founder, principal shareholder, and executive chairwoman of the board is Mrs. Eleanor Whitman."
A massive gasp rippled across the poolside crowd.
Several guests who had witnessed Isla's cruelty in the lobby two hours earlier burst into sudden, enthusiastic applause.
Isla froze, her arm suspended in mid-air, her mouth hanging open as the reality of her words detonated in her mind like a bomb.
She's nothing. She's just a maid we brought in to help babysit.
The woman she had treated like dirt, the woman she had ordered around like a servant, was the billionaire owner of the very ground she was standing on.
"You... you own the resort?" Isla choked out, her face turning an ugly shade of ash gray as her designer sunglasses slipped off her nose and fell into the sand.
"I own the resort, Isla," I replied, meeting her horrified gaze without a single drop of pity. "I own the seventeen properties that funded your country club dinners. And as of noon today, I own the outstanding commercial notes on the townhouse you live in back in Naperville."
Marcus collapsed onto his knees in the white sand, heedless of the spilled drinks and dirty napkins, looking up at me with tears of sheer terror streaming down his cheeks.
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"Mom... please," Marcus wept, reaching out toward the hem of my pantsuit. "Mom, please don't do this here... everyone is watching."
"You didn't mind who was watching two hours ago, Marcus," I said coldly, stepping back so his hands grasped only empty air. "When your wife called me a dog in front of fifty people, you laughed."
