Chapter 8 - The Other Glass
The message didn't prove what had been put in either glass, and Dana said so before I could turn it into a verdict. The investigators had collected my drink, the packet, and a sample associated with the second setting. The results came through their process, not through a dramatic phone call from a friend in a laboratory.
A confirmed report later identified the same unexpected sedating medication in both sampled drinks. The packet was still being examined, and investigators were comparing witnesses' accounts and camera footage to establish who had handled which item. I gave another statement about Vanessa's movements in the mirror and about Grant's words before I entered the ballroom.
“Why would they want both of you affected?” the investigator asked.
“My mother had evidence about the invoices,” I said. “I was scheduled to introduce her. That's my understanding, not something I heard either of them confess.”
He thanked me for the distinction. It was strangely comforting to be asked to separate what I knew from what I feared.
Mom listened to the news in silence. We were at her apartment, surrounded by houseplants she insisted were thriving despite one being obviously dead.
“I was going to give my speech no matter what,” she said.
“I know.”
“I brought my list in my purse. Grant said he'd have a pretty slide made out of it. I told him to leave it handwritten. People ought to see how long I'd been asking.”
I pictured her walking to the microphone after two drinks that were supposed to make her unsteady or incoherent, strangers nodding when Grant called her confused. I'd spent weeks believing I'd almost been publicly humiliated. They had been preparing to take away her credibility too.
“I could have lost you,” I said.
She touched my cheek. “You didn't. Sit down and eat.”
The next morning, investigators interviewed Vanessa. Her attorney later confirmed that she had provided records about Lakefront Fulfillment and the gala planning. I didn't know what she said about the substance or whether she was telling the whole truth. I knew only that she was no longer calling the wine a vitamin in messages sent through counsel.
Grant's lawyer issued a statement denying financial wrongdoing and accusing me of using a private marriage dispute to destroy a charity. I declined to argue in public. I couldn't ask families to trust an audit while fighting my divorce through headlines.
Then the independent accountant found a second problem. The invoices submitted by Lakefront Fulfillment had been paid from Harbor's grant account into a bank account controlled by that vendor. The vendor appeared to have few staff and little documented delivery capacity. Its manager had approved charges on nights the fleet's maintenance records showed no vehicles in service. The review couldn't yet establish who ultimately benefited from every transfer, but the trail was no longer just a pile of suspicious meal labels.
Vanessa had been listed as the vendor's contact, but someone else had been signing its checks.
“Grant?” I asked.
“His name appears as an authorized signer on some records,” the accountant said. “We're confirming which permissions were valid and when they were granted.”
I hung up and walked into the empty dining room. We'd removed the fundraising photographs from the wall. I hadn't destroyed them. I'd turned them face down so workers didn't have to look at Grant shaking donors' hands while they waited for a payroll forecast.
Miles was there replacing a broken light fixture with a licensed electrician. He had taken a day off work to help the kitchen get ready for our next supper.
“Can I ask something ugly?” he said.
“Always.”
“Did you know Dad was seeing Vanessa?”
“I suspected it. I found hotel receipts in April. I was trying to decide what to say.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he's your father, and I didn't want to make you choose sides. But keeping everything quiet made it easier for him to tell you his version first. I'm sorry.”
Miles looked up at the old photograph on the wall: my mother, Dad, Tess, me, and Grant on Second Table's opening day. We were laughing because the first batch of biscuits had burned.
“I used to think you never made mistakes,” he said.
“That's a lot to put on a woman who once served charcoal biscuits to the mayor.”
He smiled despite himself. Then he grew serious. “I don't need you to hate him for me. I just need you not to disappear again.”
I stood close enough for him to decide whether he wanted a hug. He stepped into it.
That afternoon, a letter arrived from Harbor's former board chair, Meryl Watkins. She'd retired abruptly in May, telling everyone she wanted more time with her grandchildren. Now she asked to speak with Dana and me.
We met at a public library. Meryl brought minutes from a board meeting that had never appeared in the records Grant had supplied to the city. The minutes documented objections to the Lakefront contract, including her own request for independent review. They also showed she'd voted to approve the contract anyway.
“Why?” I asked.
“Grant threatened to tell the donors I'd mismanaged the scholarship account. I'd made mistakes there. Nothing like these invoices, but enough that I panicked. I voted yes, then resigned.”
“You let him use your fear to hurt people.”
“Yes,” she said. She did not ask me to forgive her. “I kept the original minutes. I should have brought them in sooner.”
Dana accepted copies and arranged to preserve the originals. Meryl offered to speak with the investigators. Her evidence didn't make her brave in the months when she stayed silent. It made her useful now.
As we left the library, she caught my sleeve.
“Nora, there's something else. Your husband kept saying Lakefront was the only vendor that could run Route Seven.”
“Why?”
“He said if anyone inspected the actual deliveries, they'd find out the route had never existed.”
I stopped walking.
May you like
The next question wasn't where all those meals had gone.
It was how many people had been promised help on a route no truck had ever driven.
