Chương 2 - DINNER WITH THE OLD MAN
Nathan called me Wednesday morning.
Not Walter.
Nathan.
I nearly rejected the call because I was halfway through illustrating a children’s museum brochure for a client who had already ignored two invoices.
“Hello?”
“Mara Ellis?”
“You know it is.”
A pause.
“This is Nathan Alden.”
“I also know that.”
“You’re difficult.”
“You opened with my full legal name.”
“Is that unusual?”
“For humans.”
He ignored that.
“Tomorrow’s dinner has changed location.”
“Why?”
“My father’s preference.”
“That sounds suspiciously like your preference.”
“It isn’t.”
“Where?”
He gave me an address in Beacon Hill.
I recognized it.
Alden House.
Walter’s private residence.
My stomach tightened.
“Why are we having dinner at his house?”
Nathan did not answer immediately.
“Mara.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re about to.”
He exhaled.
“Did anyone contact you after the gala?”
I stopped drawing.
“What kind of anyone?”
“Businesspeople. Foundation staff. Reporters.”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask what my father said to you?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since the gala.”
“Did anyone offer you money?”
That made me sit up.
“No.”
“Anything unusual?”
I thought.
Then remembered.
“My mailbox.”
Silence.
“What about it?”
“There was an envelope this morning.”
“What was inside?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was a late client check.”
“Open it.”
“Nathan—”
“Please.”
That word sounded painful coming from him.
I opened the envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a cashier’s check.
$25,000
I stopped breathing.
“Nathan.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
Another silence.
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“Memo?”
I looked.
CONSULTING – W.A. DINNER
My skin went cold.
“I didn’t consult anyone.”
“I know.”
“Who sent it?”
“Don’t deposit it.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Photograph everything. Envelope too.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is trying to make it look like you were paid to approach my father.”
I stared at the check.
The gala suddenly felt less funny.
“Why?”
“We’re still figuring that out.”
I lowered my voice.
“Is your father in danger?”
Nathan answered too quickly.
“No.”
I knew enough about rich men now to recognize a lie.
“Bad one.”
“What?”
“You answered too fast.”
“Mara.”
“If Walter is in danger, I’m not coming to dinner.”
Nathan went quiet.
Then:
“Fair.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“My father is not under an immediate physical threat.”
“Immediate is doing a lot of work there.”
“Yes.”
“What’s happening?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow.”
“No. Now.”
“You’re not involved.”
“Someone mailed me twenty-five thousand dollars with your father’s initials on it.”
Another pause.
“You’re involved.”
Exactly.
Nathan finally said:
“Alden Civic committed forty million dollars to a joint redevelopment and arts-education project in Roxbury.”
“I know.”
The Hawthorne Foundation had made the announcement six months earlier.
Affordable commercial studios.
Youth arts programs.
Mixed-income housing.
I had almost applied for one of the illustrator residencies.
Nathan continued.
“Approximately seventeen million has been redirected through contractor invoices.”
“Stolen?”
“Possibly.”
“By who?”
“We don’t know.”
“And Walter?”
“My father signed the original commitment.”
“So somebody can use his approval as cover.”
“Yes.”
“And the gala?”
“Several board members attended.”
“Which man left after everyone discovered who Walter was?”
Silence.
Nathan said:
“You noticed?”
“I notice people.”
That had kept me alive as a freelancer.
Who smiled before asking for free work.
Who stopped making eye contact when payment came due.
Which clients used phrases like exposure instead of numbers.
“The man who left was Charles Mercer.”
Nathan’s chief strategy officer.
Financial press loved him.
Smooth.
Forty-six.
Recently rumored as a possible successor if Nathan ever stepped down.
“He manages the redevelopment partnerships?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
Nathan did not respond.
“Why didn’t you call police?”
“We have auditors.”
“That wasn't the question.”
Nathan’s voice cooled.
“There are legal considerations.”
“Rich-person sentence.”
“Mara.”
“Fine.”
I looked again at the check.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Bring it tomorrow.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“Should I be scared?”
Another pause.
“Cautious.”
Terrible answer.
Thursday evening, I stood outside Walter Alden’s Beacon Hill home wearing a dress I had bought for a cousin’s wedding four years earlier and repaired twice.
Nathan opened the door.
“You came.”
“Your father wrote me a guilt note.”
“Of course he did.”
He looked at my dress.
Then away quickly.
I smiled.
“Still not flirting?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Walter appeared from the hall.
“Mara!”
He hugged me.
Nathan looked horrified.
Walter whispered:
“My son was raised badly.”
“By who?”
“Apparently me.”
Dinner was simple.
Roast chicken.
Potatoes.
Green beans.
Walter insisted.
“I’m eighty-one. Foam belongs in mattresses, not food.”
Nathan ignored him.
We ate at a round table.
No servants hovering.
No silver covers.
I liked Walter more every minute.
Halfway through dinner, he asked:
“Why did you bid?”
Nathan looked annoyed.
“Dad.”
“I want to know.”
I set down my fork.
“Because nobody else did.”
Walter waited.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn't know me.”
“No.”
“I could have been awful.”
“You still looked embarrassed.”
Walter became quiet.
Then:
“My wife would have liked you.”
Nathan’s face changed.
I knew Walter’s wife, Margaret, had died three years earlier.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Walter looked toward his son.
“Nathan stopped laughing after she died.”
Nathan stiffened.
“Dad.”
“What? It’s true.”
I looked at Nathan.
He glared at his potatoes.
Walter continued:
“Then he became CEO and stopped doing almost everything else.”
“Excellent dinner conversation.”
“I’m old. Nobody stops me.”
Also true.
After dessert, Nathan showed me the cashier’s check.
He had placed it inside an evidence sleeve.
“That signature block belongs to a Boston commercial bank.”
“So?”
“The purchaser used a holding company.”
“Whose?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Walter said:
“We suspect Charles.”
Nathan immediately:
“We suspect no one without evidence.”
Walter rolled his eyes.
“This is why board meetings take six hours.”
Then Walter looked at me.
“Mara, somebody wants my son to think you approached me for money.”
“Why me?”
“Because you were visible.”
Nathan answered.
“You created a scene everyone remembers.”
“I donated five dollars.”
“Exactly.”
“Still confused.”
Nathan leaned forward.
“If someone later claims my father has been privately directing Hawthorne redevelopment decisions through unofficial intermediaries, you could be portrayed as one.”
I laughed.
Then realized he wasn’t joking.
“You think someone wants to connect Walter to the missing money.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Walter answered this time.
“To remove Nathan.”
Nathan looked at him sharply.
Walter continued.
“Alden Civic’s bylaws allow temporary leadership review if the CEO is implicated in unauthorized related-party activity involving the founder or family trust.”
I stared.
“So somebody frames Walter.”
“And me.”
Nathan said.
“Then the board can suspend him.”
Walter added.
“Who takes over?”
I asked.
Neither answered.
They did not need to.
Charles Mercer.
I leaned back.
“So I’m what?”
Nathan looked at me.
“A receipt.”
That offended me.
“Wonderful.”
Walter reached for my hand.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You’re the person who refused to become useful after learning my name.”
I swallowed.
Walter squeezed once.
“That may make you inconvenient.”
Nathan said:
“Dad.”
Walter ignored him.
“Inconvenient people are valuable.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Nathan stood.
He did not return for five minutes.
When he did, his face had changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He looked at Walter.
“Charles is downstairs.”
Walter frowned.
“At ten at night?”
“He says he needs to speak to you privately.”
Walter leaned back.
“Does he know Mara is here?”
Nathan’s eyes came to mine.
“Yes.”
And suddenly I understood.
Whoever mailed the check knew exactly when Walter Alden planned to have dinner with me.
This was not somebody cleaning up after the gala.
May you like
Somebody was watching the house.
---
