Chapter 5 - THE UNRAVELING BANQUET
Fiona’s fingers fluttered toward the silver handle of the dome directly in front of her. Her socialite friends were watching intently, some already whispering behind their cloth napkins, sensing the ice-cold tension crackling through the room.
“Julian,” Fiona murmured uncertainly, looking up at her son. “What is the meaning of these officers?”
“Open it, Mother,” Julian ordered through clenched teeth, his eyes boring into me with murderous fury. “It’s just food. Sloan is trying to make a scene because she couldn’t do the work herself. Open it so we can kick her out and eat.”
Fiona gripped the silver handle and lifted the cloche.
A fragrant cloud of steam rose from a bed of saffron risotto. But resting directly on top of the golden rice was not a cut of meat.
It was an official, plastic-sleeved court order bearing the bright red seal of the Cook County Circuit Court.
Fiona blinked, recoiling slightly. “What... what is this paper doing on my risotto?”
“Dish number one,” I announced, stepping forward. “That is an Emergency Ex-Parte Order of Protection and an Eviction Notice. You see, Fiona, Julian told me last night to get out of his house. But according to the Cook County Registrar of Deeds, this penthouse was purchased outright in 2021 by the Sloan Vance Living Trust. Julian’s name isn’t on the deed. Neither is yours. This house belongs to me. And by order of the court, Julian has fifteen minutes to vacate the premises.”
Gasps rippled across the dining table like wildfire. Mrs. Kensington, Fiona’s closest country-club rival, dropped her champagne glass, sending shards of crystal and sparkling wine splashing across the Persian rug.
Julian’s face went from pale to a terrifying shade of purple. “Are you insane? You can’t evict me! We’re married! Everything you have is marital property!”
“Lift dish number two,” Darcy interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like a scalpel.
Darcy reached over and lifted the silver dome in front of Julian’s seat. Beneath it sat a seared duck breast, pinned down by a laminated certified bank statement.
“Dish number two,” Darcy stated, addressing the entire room. “The forensic accounting report detailing Julian’s unauthorized withdrawal of $420,000 against Mrs. Vance’s trust fund, funneled into dummy shell corporations to conceal massive business insolvency.”
“Shut up!” Julian lunged toward the table, but the two sheriff’s deputies moved instantly, stepping between him and Darcy with hands resting firmly on their utility belts.
“Step back, sir,” the taller deputy warned, his voice low and uncompromising. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”
“Julian!” Fiona shrieked, her hand clutching her pearls as she stared at the bank statement. “Julian, tell them this is a lie!”
“Oh, we’re only on dish two, Fiona,” I said, walking slowly down the length of the table, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. “We have fifty-eight more courses to go. Would anyone like to see what’s under dish number twelve? That’s the wire transfer to the Cayman Islands under the name Fiona Vance. Or perhaps dish thirty-four—the surveillance logs from Julian’s weekend trips to the Drake Hotel with his former secretary?”
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Julian stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged, shallow wheezes. The sixty dishes weren't a feast.
They were an autopsy of his entire life.
