Chapter 7 - The Wolf in Custom Wool
At 9:45 AM, the reception doors opened again, and Richard Sterling walked into the executive suite of Pendelton, Vance & Cross with the arrogant swagger of a man who believed he was about to collect an easy victory.
He was thirty-two, sporting slicked-back pomade hair, a tailored pinstripe suit with peak lapels, and a Rolex Daytona gleaming prominently against his starched French cuff. He carried an expensive leather portfolio and was accompanied by a nervous junior associate carrying a stack of red-labeled foreclosure filings.
“Arthur,” Richard said loudly, extending a hand that the senior partner did not take. “I got your emergency summons. I assumed we were closing the Bennett liquidation. The sheriff’s department is on standby in Winnebago County right now. By two o’clock, we’ll have the equipment on flatbeds.”
Then his eyes traveled past Pendelton’s desk and landed on the wingback chair.
Claire sat upright, staring straight into his eyes. Her posture was erect, her chin raised, her hands resting calmly on the armrests.
Richard blinked, letting out a condescending chuckle. “Miss Bennett. You dragged yourself downtown? I told you on the phone, sweetheart, crying in the lobby doesn’t stay a writ of execution. You don't have the funds. You don't have the leverage. You shouldn't have wasted the train fare.”
“She didn't take the train, Richard,” a cool, dry voice rang out from the shadows near the tall arched windows.
Richard froze. The smile vanished from his face like chalk wiped off a blackboard.
Evelyn stepped out from behind the heavy velvet drapes, tapping her ivory cane once against the Persian rug.
Tap.
Richard went gray. His knees visibly buckled, and his junior associate nearly dropped the files onto the carpet.
“Aunt... Aunt Evelyn?” Richard stammered, his voice rising an octave. “What... what are you doing in Chicago? The trust office said you were resting at the estate in Lake Geneva.”
“I was,” Evelyn said, walking slowly toward the center of the room. “Until yesterday afternoon, when I felt like having a blueberry muffin at a bakery on Michigan Avenue.”
Richard frowned, completely uncomprehending. “A bakery? I don’t understand—”
“I know you don’t understand, Richard,” Evelyn said, coming to a halt three feet from him. Her silver eyes cut through him like surgical steel. “You have never understood anything that couldn't be calculated on a spreadsheet or extorted from people who were too tired to fight you.”
Evelyn pointed her cane directly at the junior associate. “Put those papers on the desk, young man, and leave this room. If you value your license to practice law in the state of Illinois, you will walk out to the elevator and never speak to this man again.”
The associate looked at Richard, looked at Arthur Pendelton’s impassive face, dumped the stack of legal papers onto the mahogany desk, and sprinted out the door without looking back.
“Aunt Evelyn, listen to me,” Richard pleaded, sweating through his custom collar. “This is a commercial matter. Bennett Design defaulted on an operational credit line. I am simply fulfilling my fiduciary duty to the shareholders of Vanguard Crest—”
“You are fulfilling your duty to your own greed,” Evelyn interrupted, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Arthur, read him the findings.”
Pendelton stood up, adjusting his glasses. “At six o’clock this morning, the Illinois Attorney General’s Special Financial Crimes Division accepted our formal filing regarding the forged signatures of Robert Bennett on the November 16th mezzanine instrument. In addition, Mrs. Sterling-Vane has exercised her emergency executive override as seventy-two percent voting shareholder of Vanguard Crest Financial. Your employment as Senior Vice President of Recovery is terminated, effective eight minutes ago. Your company accounts are frozen. Your corporate car is being repossessed in the parking garage downstairs as we speak.”
Richard gripped the edge of Pendelton’s desk, his knuckles turning purple. “You can’t do this! That loan was legally assigned! You can't fire me over some white-trash furniture shop in Rockford!”
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Evelyn walked up to him until her face was inches from his. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
“The girl you call white trash spent her last five dollars to buy me bread while you were plotting to steal her father’s workshop. You are not a businessman, Richard. You are a maggot feeding on the labor of real men. And your lunch is over.”
