Chapter 3 - THE PLACE CARD UNDER THE TABLE
The first person who apologized to me was not my daughter.
It was the waitress.
Her name was Lydia Chen, and she was waiting outside the restaurant when Dana Ortiz and I arrived Thursday morning.
Lydia looked exhausted.
She held a white envelope in both hands.
“Mrs. Ellis?”
“Ruth is fine.”
Her eyes filled.
“I'm sorry about last night.”
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
“I should have said something.”
I looked at her carefully.
“About what?”
She glanced toward the restaurant windows.
Then she handed me the envelope.
Inside was my place card.
The same white card Trent had folded and shoved beneath the wobbling table.
My name was printed in elegant gold letters.
RUTH ELLIS.
One corner had been flattened beneath the table leg.
“I took it out after everyone left,” Lydia said. “It didn't seem right to throw it away.”
I ran my thumb across the crease.
“Thank you.”
She shifted nervously.
“There's something else.”
Dana, an experienced commercial building engineer, waited a few steps away to give us privacy.
Lydia lowered her voice.
“Mr. Voss told us to leave that section of the dining room alone until you arrived.”
“What section?”
“The table with the uneven leg. We reported it before the dinner.”
“Why wouldn't he let someone fix it?”
“I don't know. But he told the photographer exactly where to stand.”
My stomach tightened.
“Before I came?”
Lydia nodded.
“And the wine?”
She looked away.
“I saw him move a full glass to the edge of the table. A minute later, it was on the floor.”
I remembered walking toward the waitress with the mop.
I remembered Trent making his announcement.
Had the entire thing been arranged?
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you helped me when everyone else watched.”
She swallowed.
“And because I think he's planning to blame me for something.”
Before I could ask what, the restaurant doors opened.
Trent appeared wearing a gray suit and an expensive watch.
His smile vanished when he saw me.
“Ruth. What are you doing here?”
“Good morning, Trent.”
He looked at Dana.
“Who's this?”
“Dana Ortiz. She's conducting a property-condition inspection.”
“An inspection? Who authorized that?”
“The owner.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Then you should probably leave until the owner gets here.”
Dana opened her identification case.
“I have written authorization from Willow Street Holdings.”
Trent's expression changed slightly.
“That's the investment company.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why would they send you?”
“I'm accompanying their representative.”
I didn't tell him anything more.
Not yet.
Dana began upstairs.
She found several problems that should have been addressed months earlier.
A leaking water line had damaged the ceiling above the kitchen.
The rear emergency exit was difficult to open.
And the fire alarm monitoring system had not received the scheduled service documented in the maintenance records.
None of these issues was beyond repair.
But the restaurant had been reporting that the work was complete.
“Someone has been paying invoices for maintenance they didn't receive,” Dana said.
Trent folded his arms.
“Those are contractor issues.”
“Then I'll need their records.”
His jaw tightened.
While Dana examined the basement utility room, Lydia approached me again.
This time, she carried a worn notebook.
“I keep track of my shifts,” she said.
“That's sensible.”
“Mr. Voss says the restaurant can't afford full tips right now. He takes part of the pooled tips and says we'll receive everything after refinancing.”
I opened the notebook.
Every entry contained a date, hours worked, and the tips Lydia believed she was owed.
Other employees had added their own figures.
The total was nearly fourteen thousand dollars.
“And that's only what we've written down,” she said.
“Does Claire know?”
Lydia hesitated.
“She knows we're waiting for money. Mr. Voss tells her it's a bookkeeping delay.”
I looked toward the dining room.
Trent was arguing with Dana near the kitchen.
For years, I'd believed he was ambitious.
A little arrogant, perhaps.
But I had never imagined he would take money from employees while hosting an eighty-person anniversary celebration.
“Keep your notebook somewhere safe,” I told Lydia.
“I made copies.”
“Good.”
She started to leave, then stopped.
“One more thing.”
She handed me a printed seating chart from the dinner.
Most names were arranged normally.
Investors occupied the central tables.
Friends and relatives sat near the windows.
My name had originally appeared beside Claire's.
But someone had crossed it out.
Next to it was a handwritten instruction.
Move R.E. to table twelve after incident.
I stared at the words.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don't know. It was on the event manager's clipboard.”
I remembered Trent folding my place card.
He hadn't merely removed my seat.
He had followed instructions.
My phone rang.
Martin.
“Ruth, I've found the document Calder used to support his proposed purchase.”
“What document?”
“A statement claiming someone already has authority to negotiate on your behalf.”
I stepped into the hallway.
“Who supposedly gave that authority?”
Martin was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “I'm sending you the page.”
It arrived immediately.
The document contained a familiar signature.
Claire Voss.
My daughter's name.
But the sentence above it was what frightened me.
May you like
I authorize my husband, Trent Voss, to negotiate the disposition of my mother's commercial property in anticipation of my appointment as her financial representative.
And the document had been signed twelve days before the anniversary dinner.
