Chapter 6 - THE GIRL WHO WANTED EVERYONE TO DANCE
“Don't use my sister's name to make this scandal bigger.”
Sam's voice was sharper than Audrey had ever heard it.
They were sitting in Walter Whitfield's study the following morning.
Between them lay the blue invitation announcing the Lily Harlan Accessibility Fund.
Audrey had suggested examining the charity's activities.
Sam hadn't taken it well.
“Lily was seventeen when she died,” he continued. “She wasn't a business opportunity. She wasn't a publicity campaign.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are we digging through something that should have been left alone?”
Audrey watched him carefully.
“Because someone raised money using her name, Sam. Don't you want to know whether it helped anyone?”
He stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, fresh snow covered the Whitfield estate.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he whispered:
“She hated being somebody's sad story.”
Audrey moved closer.
“So do I.”
He turned.
There was no anger in her expression.
Only understanding.
“She wanted people to remember her for who she was,” Sam said. “Not what happened to her.”
Audrey nodded.
“Then that's exactly what we should do.”
Later that morning, they visited the neighborhood community center where Frank had volunteered.
Its director, Patricia Monroe, was a woman in her sixties with silver glasses and a practical manner.
When Sam mentioned Lily, Patricia smiled.
“Oh, that girl. She could turn the worst afternoon into a celebration.”
Sam looked surprised.
“You knew her?”
“Of course. She came here for adaptive recreation classes. She used to organize little kitchen-style dances in our activity room.”
Sam swallowed.
“I didn't know she did that here.”
Patricia opened a cabinet and brought out a photograph.
Lily sat in her wheelchair with a pink ribbon tied around one handle.
Six other participants surrounded her.
Everyone was laughing.
On the back, Lily had written:
EVERYBODY GETS A DANCE.
Sam touched the handwriting.
Audrey looked away to give him a moment.
Patricia sat across from them.
“After Lily passed, we received a letter about a charity fund in her name. We were told it would help renovate this building.”
“Did you receive the money?” Audrey asked.
“Some.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand dollars over two years.”
Sam frowned.
“The fundraiser was supposed to collect two million.”
Patricia adjusted her glasses.
“I don't know the total raised. But I can tell you the project stopped before the improvements were finished.”
She showed them the building's rear entrance.
The automatic door opener didn't work.
The accessible restroom still had an old, narrow doorway.
The community room's flooring was uneven.
“We were promised all of this would be repaired,” Patricia said.
“By Lawson Development?” Audrey asked.
“Yes.”
Sam felt something cold settle in his chest.
His sister's name had been used to promise dignity to people who were still waiting for basic improvements.
But Patricia wasn't finished.
“There's someone else you should speak to.”
She led them into a small office where a former project coordinator, Daniel Mercer, was sorting donated books.
Daniel had once supervised several Lawson construction sites.
He'd left the company the previous month.
When Audrey introduced herself, he looked startled.
“Miss Whitfield.”
“Please call me Audrey.”
Daniel glanced toward Sam.
“You're Frank Harlan's son.”
Sam nodded.
Daniel slowly closed the book he was holding.
“I wondered when somebody would come asking questions.”
Audrey showed him the photographs of the market.
He examined the first image.
Then the second.
His expression darkened.
“That gate was never installed before opening.”
“We know,” Sam replied.
“Do you know why?”
Audrey shook her head.
Daniel leaned back.
“Because the money budgeted for it had been redirected. We were told to use temporary equipment until a later delivery.”
“Who gave that instruction?” Audrey asked.
“The project office. They said it came from senior management.”
Sam pressed his palms against the desk.
“Are you saying somebody used my sister's charity money to cover a construction shortfall?”
“I can't prove that,” Daniel answered. “Not from these photographs.”
“Then what can you prove?”
Daniel opened his old project notebook.
He pointed to several entries written months apart.
The same supplier code appeared beside the community center's canceled renovations and the winter market's unfinished safety installation.
“Both projects were billed through a company called Northbridge Facilities,” he said.
Audrey recognized the name.
It appeared on the payment record Walter had reviewed.
Daniel continued.
“I asked why we kept paying the same supplier when the equipment wasn't arriving.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That the invoices were legitimate.”
“And you believed them?”
“For a while.”
Daniel closed the notebook.
“Then I visited the address listed for Northbridge.”
Sam leaned forward.
“What was there?”
“A small office with two desks. No equipment. No warehouse. No workers.”
Audrey felt her pulse quicken.
“Who owned it?”
Daniel hesitated.
“I never found out.”
Then he turned to a page near the back of his notebook.
“There was one other thing. The day I complained, somebody from Whitfield Hotels contacted my supervisor and told him to stop answering my questions.”
Audrey went still.
“From my father's company?”
Daniel nodded.
“I wrote down the name.”
He slid the notebook across the desk.
Audrey read the entry.
Elaine Porter.
May you like
And beneath it, a handwritten instruction:
DO NOT DISCUSS NORTHBRIDGE PAYMENTS WITH WALTER WHITFIELD.
