Chapter 10 - THE AUNT WHO KEPT THE SECRET|
I stared at the phone long after the call disconnected.
Aunt Marjorie watched me.
"What did Vivian say?"
I hesitated.
The accusation was too serious to repeat casually, especially when we had no way to verify why Vivian had made it.
"She said she knew who took the brooch."
"And?"
I met my aunt's eyes.
"She said my mother was afraid of you."
For the first time since Founders' Night, Aunt Marjorie looked genuinely shaken.
Then she sat down.
"Your mother and I disagreed about something very important," she said. "But I never threatened her, and I never took anything from her."
"Then what was she afraid of?"
Aunt Marjorie folded her hands.
"Years ago, Eleanor discovered that a former foundation administrator had approved expenses without proper documentation. The amounts were relatively small at first. She wanted to investigate quietly because the foundation employed several dozen people, and a public scandal could have jeopardized their jobs."
"Who was the administrator?"
"Vivian handled the records, but she wasn't the person with final authority. That was Thomas Vale, the foundation's former executive director."
I recognized the name from the old documents.
Thomas had retired five years earlier.
"He approved the payments?"
"Some of them. Others were approved through delegated authority. Your mother asked me to help her review the governing documents, and I advised her to seek an independent audit."
"What happened?"
"She refused to proceed immediately. She believed Thomas had information that could expose other irregularities, and she wanted to understand the full picture before confronting him."
I remembered the final line in my mother's letter.
Ask who benefited before asking who signed.
"Did you ever suspect Grant?"
"Not at first."
Aunt Marjorie looked toward the window.
"Grant was charming. He offered to help the foundation modernize its investments. He presented himself as someone who could protect the family's assets. Your mother appreciated his confidence, but she never gave him unrestricted authority."
"Did you tell her you thought he was dangerous?"
"No. I told her I thought his proposals were too broad and insufficiently documented."
"That isn't the same thing."
"No," she admitted. "It isn't."
For the first time, I saw the limits of my aunt's certainty. She had spent her career distinguishing evidence from speculation, yet even she had been caught inside a family that confused discretion with silence.
I asked her why Vivian would claim my mother feared her.
"Perhaps Vivian believes I prevented the investigation from proceeding. Perhaps she is trying to protect herself by redirecting attention. Perhaps she knows something I don't."
"Do you believe she stole the brooch?"
"I don't know."
Her answer surprised me.
I had expected her to defend herself by condemning Vivian.
Instead, she had left room for uncertainty.
Daniel called the current foundation attorney and reported the discovery of the storage unit. He also documented Vivian's call and recommended that we avoid contacting her repeatedly or attempting to obtain information through pressure.
An hour later, the attorney confirmed that the family would need to preserve the documents and submit relevant materials for independent review.
No accusations would be made publicly.
No accounts would be transferred without proper authorization.
And no one would be allowed to destroy the records.
That afternoon, I returned to Hawthorne House alone.
Grant was waiting in the entrance hall.
He had changed into a dark suit and carried a small overnight bag.
"Where have you been?"
"Handling matters that concern me."
"Those are my family records."
"Some are foundation records. Some concern my mother's affairs. Some bear my signature without my authorization."
He set down the bag.
"You're making a terrible mistake."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you refuse to listen. Your mother was not the saint you think she was. She kept secrets. She made decisions that hurt people. You don't know everything about her."
I felt a familiar ache in my chest.
"Then show me the evidence."
He hesitated.
"Ask Marjorie why your mother changed her will three months before she died."
The words struck like a slap.
I knew my mother had updated some estate documents, but I had never asked for the details. I had assumed she wanted to simplify matters after her diagnosis.
Grant watched my reaction.
"There," he said softly. "You don't know what she did. You don't know what she promised. Yet you're willing to destroy your marriage over a chair and a piece of jewelry."
I stepped past him.
"My marriage isn't being destroyed by a chair."
He caught my sleeve.
I pulled free.
"It's being exposed by the records."
His face hardened.
"Then perhaps you should see what those records say about your mother."
He handed me a folded document.
It was a copy of a letter addressed to the family's former attorney.
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
And the final paragraph referred to a payment made to someone named Peter Langford.
I looked up.
Grant was already walking toward the door.
"Ask your aunt," he said. "She knows why your mother paid him."
May you like
Then he left me standing beneath the portrait of the woman I had thought I understood.
For the first time, I wondered whether Grant had discovered a real secret about my mother—or simply found another way to make me doubt everything I loved.
