Chapter 5 - Twelve Guests Who Never Ate
The handwriting on the event schedule belonged to Patrice.
I knew it before the forensic accountant did. She made her sevens with a bar through the middle, like my aunt. I'd watched her write prep lists in the kitchen for weeks.
When I asked, she didn't deny it.
“Marco told me to reserve the dining room,” she said. “I wrote what he dictated. Nobody ever came.”
“Then what were the dinners for?”
“I don't know. I was told to say they were corporate buyouts. We'd still get tipped like a full service.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head. “Marco counted the tips into a drawer and said we were paid later through payroll. Nobody could make the numbers add up.”
Frank sat beside me across from forensic accountant Jonah Price, whose questions were precise and uncomfortable.
“Let's distinguish what we know,” Jonah said. “The restaurant recorded event revenue. It issued catering invoices. We haven't verified that cash changed hands or that any specific payment was illicit. A fictional event is a warning sign, not the whole case.”
“It's a warning sign that stole Rosa's money,” I said.
“Possibly. But if you want restitution that survives scrutiny, we'll trace the funds.”
The side computer used a legacy vendor account. Marco had administrator access, and Celia's office received its monthly reports.
That afternoon I received a handwritten letter slipped under the apartment door. No envelope. No signature.
If you care about your people, stop digging.
My hands shook as I held it. This time I photographed it, set it down, and called the police nonemergency line. A detective took the report and told me what I already knew: a threatening note didn't identify its author.
Then I called my mother.
She brought soup and a photograph of me at twelve, holding a tray in my father's diner.
“I thought buying Redwood would make Dad proud,” I admitted.
“Your dad would ask whether everybody got fed,” she said. “Then whether they got paid.”
I looked down. “I got both answers wrong.”
“You can admit that without making it the last thing you do.”
At eight, Denise called. A van had parked behind Copper & Rye. Two men were attempting to unload stacked boxes even though the catering event had been canceled. She had refused the delivery and asked them to leave.
“I got the license plate and the shipping receipt,” she said. “Didn't open anything.”
“Good. Are you safe?”
“Yes. A uniformed officer came by after we reported the trespass. We're closed, and the crew is home.”
Jonah verified the receipt with the supply company. Cumberland Hospitality Advisors had paid its invoice.
The boxes held linens, candles, and twelve place settings. The real questions were about the payments.
Five invoices repeated the same twelve names. Two were dated when the restaurant was closed.
“That's enough to ask the bank for supporting records,” Jonah said. “Not enough to declare victory.”
My phone rang from an unknown number.
“Lucy?” a woman asked. “My name is Meredith Cole. My husband used to book private events for Marco.”
I stood still. “What can I do for you?”
“My husband died in February. Last week someone deposited a check in his name for work he never did. The bank says somebody endorsed it. I don't want to get dragged into anything, but his mother needs the insurance money and I'm afraid this will freeze everything.”
I assured her she should have her own attorney, then listened as she described the account history. She was frightened and angry, not eager to help me play detective.
“There's a notebook,” she said finally. “He kept notes because he didn't trust Marco. I found it in the garage yesterday.”
“Have you given it to anyone?”
“I'm talking to a lawyer first.”
“That's wise.”
Before hanging up, she asked a question I couldn't shake.
“If he was stealing, how could all those rich people buy the company and not notice?”
That night I went through the original diligence reports with Frank. On page sixty-three, my signature confirmed acceptance of an exception report: incomplete supporting documentation for private-event cash revenue.
Frank looked at the page, then at me.
“You were told there was a risk,” he said.
“I was told they'd clean it up within ninety days.”
“And you believed it.”
Dad once told me bigger restaurants meant nothing if I didn't know who was carrying the tables.
May you like
I had wanted the deal too badly.
Now Meredith's question had an answer I wasn't proud of.
