Chapter 6 - The Lasagna Taken Off the Table
When I unlocked our front door at 1:15 PM, the house was filled with the smell of garlic, expensive cigars, and boisterous laughter.
Sitting in our formal dining room were Mark, Diane, and Melissa.
Spread across my mother’s heirloom dining table were architectural floor plans, real estate brochures for Westerville luxury estates, and a brand-new glossy brochure for an Audi Q8.
Diane was wearing a new gold bracelet, gesturing animatedly with a glass of chardonnay. “We can knock down the rear wall of the patio and put in a heated pool! Melissa, honey, you can keep your horses on the back paddock!”
Mark looked up from the head of the table, his eyes gleaming with greedy excitement. “Clare! Finally! How did the lawyer meeting go? Did Green give you the wire routing numbers?”
I didn't take off my coat. I stood at the end of the dining table, setting my purse down with quiet deliberation.
“The meeting was very thorough, Mark,” I said evenly.
Melissa stopped chewing her breadstick. “Did he tell you when the millions drop? My commercial landlord is threatening to lock my boutique doors on Monday. I told him I’d have a certified two-hundred-thousand-dollar cashier's check by Friday afternoon.”
“There is no cashier's check, Melissa,” I said.
The room fell into an abrupt, unnatural silence.
Mark set his wine glass down, his brow furrowing with sudden irritation. “What do you mean there’s no check? Did Green drag his feet? I’ll call him myself right now—”
“You can’t call him, Mark,” I interrupted calmly. “Dad didn't leave liquid millions. Two years before he died, Hail Mechanical was subjected to a massive federal EPA environmental cleanup audit. Dad liquidated his personal stock portfolio to settle the remediation fines.”
Diane blinked rapidly, her smile freezing. “What... what about the business sale?”
“Gone to the escrow remediation fund,” I replied without blinking. “The only asset left is Dad’s house on Maple Street. And it carries an immediate four-hundred-thousand-dollar municipal tax lien that must be paid before title can transfer.”
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Diane’s fork dropped onto her ceramic plate with a sharp clatter.
Melissa leaped out of her chair, her face turning an ugly shade of mottled red. “A tax lien?! What do you mean four hundred thousand dollars in debt?! You let my brother quit his job for a family of bankrupt liars?!”
