Chapter 10: The Private Study
The private study smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and old parchment—the sanctuary where my father used to review shipping manifests before his stroke. The heavy oak door was unlocked, though Eleanor had spent years treating the room as her personal administrative vault.
I pushed the door open, the brass hinges turning in absolute silence. The afternoon light cut through the heavy velvet drapes, illuminating floating dust motes above the large mahogany desk. On the wall behind the desk hung a large oil portrait of my grandfather, his painted eyes seeming to watch the transformation of the room with quiet judgment.
I walked straight to the corner bookcase behind the leather armchair. According to the structural blueprints I had studied at the municipal archive, the original safe installed in 1952 wasn't behind a painting, as most people assumed, but behind the sliding cedar panel holding the complete leather-bound collection of the Federal Reporter.
My fingers found the hidden latch beneath the third shelf. With a soft click, the wood panel slid sideways, revealing a heavy digital keypad and a small brass keyhole.
"Looking for this?"
I turned sharply. Eleanor stood in the doorway, her champagne glass gone, holding a small brass letter opener with a heavy iron handle. Her hair was slightly disheveled now, a few strands escaping her chignon to frame her flushed face. Her eyes were wide and wild, stripped of all social pretension.
"You can't lock me out of my own home," she whispered, stepping into the room and closing the heavy oak door behind her with a dull thud. "I gave twenty years of my life to keep this family from bankruptcy while your father sat in a wheelchair feeling sorry for himself. I earned every square inch of these floors."
"You earned a prison sentence," I said, not backing away an inch. I kept my hand resting near the open safe panel. "You didn't save the estate, Eleanor. You hollowed it out. The foundation audits show four million dollars missing from the scholarship endowments, transferred directly to offshore accounts registered under your maiden name."
Eleanor lunged forward with the letter opener, her face twisting into an ugly snarl, but before she could take two steps, the study door swung open wide with a crash.
Two state troopers, accompanied by Robert and a man in a dark gray suit holding a leather briefcase, filled the doorway. The lead officer stepped inside, his hand resting firmly on his holster, his eyes fixed on the heavy brass opener in Eleanor's hand.
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"Mrs. Vance," the officer said, his voice flat and authoritative. "Put the letter opener down on the desk. You need to come with us."
Eleanor froze, the metal weapon trembling in her grip for a long second before it slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. She looked past the officers at Robert, who stood tall in the doorway, his face expressionless. Without a word, she lowered her head, her manicured hands rising as the steel cuffs clicked shut around her wrists.
