Part 6
“This will take a minute.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s your name?”
The housekeeper hesitated. “Rosa.”
“Rosa, I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous.”
The woman’s expression shifted.
Mara heard what she had said only after saying it.
Dangerous.
As if calling the father of her child required courage from an employee.
“I’m sorry,” Mara said. “That wasn’t fair.”
Rosa looked toward the ballroom again.
Then she set the towels on a chair.
“Come.”
They moved through the hallway together.
The kitchen was crowded with cooks, servers, open ovens, and trays waiting beneath heat lamps. No one paid Mara much attention at first. Rosa led her behind a swinging door into a pantry lined with shelves of dishes and dry goods.
An old cream telephone hung on the wall.
Mara picked up the receiver.
No tone.
She pressed the switch several times.
Nothing.
Rosa frowned. “It worked this morning.”
“When?”
“Before ten.”
“Did anyone come in here after that?”
“Mr. Bell.”
“Who is Mr. Bell?”
“The estate manager.”
“Where is he?”
Rosa looked uncomfortable. “Outside, perhaps.”
A cable ran from the telephone into the wall. Mara followed it with her fingers. Near the baseboard, it disappeared behind a narrow cabinet.
She crouched awkwardly.
The cabinet had been pulled away just enough to reveal the cable unplugged from a small junction box.
Mara stared at it.
Rosa whispered something in Spanish.
Mara reached toward the plug, then stopped.
If she connected it, would the call be routed through the house system? Could Celeste listen? She almost laughed at herself. The question sounded paranoid, yet the phone had been deliberately disabled.
She pushed the connector in.
A tone hummed through the receiver.
Rosa stepped back.
Mara dialed Julian’s number.
It rang once.
Then the line went silent.
She tried again.
The same thing happened.
On the third attempt, someone picked up.
No one spoke.
“Julian?”
A faint click.
“Julian, it’s Mara.”
The line died.
Rosa’s hand rose to the cross at her throat.
Mara dialed the office number she knew from memory. A recorded menu answered. She pressed zero.
“Whitmore Aerospace, executive reception.”
“This is Mara Ellison. I need to speak to Julian Whitmore.”
“Mr. Whitmore is unavailable.”
“Who is this?”
“Executive reception.”
“I’m aware of the department. What is your name?”
A pause. “Denise.”
“Denise, is Julian in Boston?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss Mr. Whitmore’s travel.”
“Tell him I’m at his mother’s house and need him to call me.”
“I can take a message.”
“Write exactly this: Your mother sent guests an email in your name saying you doubt the baby is yours.”
Silence.
“Did you write it?”
“Yes.”
“Read it back.”
Denise did.
Mara added, “The house phones were disconnected.”
Another pause.
“I’ll forward the message.”
“Urgently.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, Ms. Ellison.”
The title felt like a judgment.
Mara hung up.
Rosa was watching her.
“Thank you,” Mara said.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
Rosa nodded, as if grateful not to be lied to.
From the kitchen, a man called her name.
She picked up the towels.
Before leaving, she said, “The guest internet password is Larkspur1974.”
Mara entered it into her phone.
The network connected.
Messages arrived in a rush.
Two from her mother, asking for photographs.
One from Julian’s assistant Owen, timestamped eleven thirty-eight.
Call me when you see this. Something is wrong with Julian’s calendar.
A second message followed, sent twenty minutes later.
Do not go to the mansion until we speak.
A third had been sent at one sixteen, exactly one minute after Mara climbed into Celeste’s car.
Mara, answer me. The shower invitation was not from Julian’s office.
Her hands began to shake.
She called Owen.
The screen showed connecting, then failed.
She tried again.
A shadow crossed the pantry doorway.
Celeste stood there.
Behind her, the kitchen continued at full speed. Knives tapped against cutting boards. A mixer whirred. No one looked toward them.
Celeste’s gaze moved from the connected phone to the junction box.
“Rosa will be dismissed,” she said.
“No, she won’t.”
“You do not employ her.”
“And you don’t get to punish people for helping me call the father of my child.”
Celeste stepped into the pantry.
“You are becoming hysterical.”
“I’m standing still.”
“Your tone—”
“My tone is the least interesting thing happening.”
Mara held up the phone.
“Owen told me the invitation didn’t come from Julian’s office.”
“Owen has been confused since the merger discussions began.”
“He told me not to come here.”
“Then perhaps you should have checked your messages.”
“You made sure I couldn’t.”
“I did nothing to your telephone.”
“Someone disconnected the landline.”
“It is an old house.”
“The Wi-Fi works.”
Celeste’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
The staff heard them. That was what troubled her now.
Mara understood the limits of Celeste’s control. She could humiliate someone publicly. She could not tolerate being contradicted in front of employees.
“Did you send the email in Julian’s name?” Mara asked again.
Celeste lowered her voice.
“I sent a message from the family office with his interests in mind.”
“Did you make it look like it came from him?”
“The distinction is not important.”
“It’s fraud.”
“Do not use legal vocabulary you don’t understand.”
“I understand pretending to be someone else.”
“You understand very little about how this family communicates.”
Mara stepped closer.
“Then explain it.”
Celeste’s face remained composed, but color had risen beneath the makeup along her cheekbones.
“Julian received information that required evaluation. He was in no position to address guests individually. I ensured today could proceed without speculation.”
“You created the speculation.”
“I contained it.”
“You invited people to watch me find out.”
“No. I invited people because canceling would have caused questions.”
“You wanted questions.”
“I wanted the matter settled.”
“With my signature.”
“With dignity.”
Mara almost laughed.
The baby kicked hard enough to make her inhale.
Celeste noticed again.
May you like
For a moment, her eyes rested on the movement beneath the pink fabric.
“You should not be under this stress,” she said.
