Chapter 8 - The Trap Set Before Dinner
“They chose me before you ever walked into the restaurant.”
My voice sounded strangely calm.
Vincent stood beside Rebecca, staring at the words on the internal risk report.
Neither of them contradicted me.
For days, I had believed I was simply a waitress who happened to witness a murder attempt.
Now the dates suggested something more deliberate.
My mother had questioned missing charity money.
I had inherited her records.
And someone had identified me as a threat.
Vincent rubbed a hand across his face.
“Why didn't you tell me your mother had filed complaints?”
“Because I didn't know.”
I heard the accusation in his question, even though he hadn't intended one.
“She was sick, Vincent. She was tired. She spent half her time trying to understand medical bills and the other half pretending she wasn't afraid.”
He lowered his hand.
“I'm sorry.”
“She didn't tell me everything because she didn't want me worrying.”
I looked again at the photograph of her wearing the silver brooch.
“She was trying to protect me.”
Rebecca examined the risk report.
“This document is concerning, but we need to establish who wrote the instruction and how it was acted upon.”
She explained that the company's upcoming independent audit was significant.
Vincent had authorized a review of port contracts and the Harbor Relief Trust after discovering inconsistencies in several vendor accounts.
Celia knew the review was coming.
If it uncovered the diverted medical funds, her position and reputation would be in serious danger.
“And possibly much more,” Rebecca added.
Vincent walked toward the windows.
“Someone used my dinner at The Grand Bell to try to stop that audit.”
“Maybe,” Rebecca said. “But we still need to prove the connection.”
I looked down at my mother's paperwork.
She had left behind a worn manila envelope tied with red string.
I remembered seeing it in the shoebox.
I hadn't opened it carefully because I assumed it contained duplicate bills.
That night, I spread the contents across my kitchen table.
There were six hospital statements.
Two copies of assistance applications.
A handwritten list of dates and names.
And a small folded note.
My mother's handwriting filled the page.
They keep saying the assistance was approved. The hospital keeps saying nothing was paid. Somebody must know where the money went.
I sat motionless.
Then I read the final sentence.
If I get too tired to finish asking, Paige will know where I put these.
My eyes filled.
She hadn't wanted to burden me.
But she had trusted me to finish something she couldn't.
For the first time since her death, I cried without feeling completely helpless.
The next morning, I took the envelope to Nora Whitfield.
She made copies and arranged to preserve the originals.
Then we met Rebecca.
Together, they began comparing my mother's dates with the financial records.
One discrepancy was particularly important.
A transfer had been authorized on the same day my mother was told her assistance was delayed.
It moved thousands of dollars out of the medical fund and into Mason Administrative Services.
Other patients had similar entries.
My mother wasn't the only person affected.
I remembered the elderly man who had sat beside her at Harborview, counting pills into a paper cup because he was afraid he couldn't afford another prescription.
How many others had suffered?
Rebecca looked at the growing list.
“We've identified at least forty-seven assistance accounts that require reconciliation.”
Forty-seven families.
Forty-seven sets of bills.
Forty-seven people who may have believed they were receiving help while their money was redirected elsewhere.
I felt anger settle into something steadier.
Determination.
That afternoon, Nora accompanied me to a staffing agency whose name appeared in the restaurant's temporary labor records.
The agency had supplied workers for large events at The Grand Bell.
We showed the manager the image of the woman wearing my apron.
She recognized her.
“That's Andrea Vale.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Did she work there the night Vincent Moretti became ill?”
The manager checked her records.
Andrea had been assigned to a private hospitality event through a subcontractor.
But the official paperwork named the event as a training exercise.
It didn't mention The Grand Bell.
“Who requested her?” Nora asked.
The manager showed us the booking information.
Mason Administrative Services.
The same company receiving the diverted medical funds.
Nora asked whether the agency could contact Andrea and invite her to speak with us voluntarily.
The manager agreed to forward the request.
Two days later, Andrea met us at a public community center with her own attorney present.
She was twenty-nine, with tired eyes and a small tattoo of three stars on her wrist.
I recognized the mark immediately.
She looked at me and began crying.
“I didn't know he could die.”
My breath caught.
“What did you think you were doing?”
Andrea wiped her cheeks.
“I was told it was a staged service test. They wanted me to wear your uniform, deliver a special coffee, and leave.”
“Who told you?”
“My supervisor at Mason.”
“Why my uniform?”
Andrea looked miserable.
“They said you were being investigated for stealing from the restaurant. That they needed to see whether somebody would notice a duplicate employee.”
My hands curled into fists.
“And you believed that?”
“I needed the work.”
She explained that her father had recently lost his apartment and was staying with relatives.
The assignment paid her $1,800.
More than she usually earned in several weeks.
“I thought the coffee was part of the test,” she whispered.
“Did you put something in it?”
She shook her head.
“I picked it up already prepared.”
“From whom?”
“A man in the service corridor. I didn't know his name.”
She remembered Dennis standing nearby.
He had looked frightened.
But he hadn't stopped anything.
Then Andrea told us she had been instructed to carry the empty cup and several other items out through the rear entrance after the emergency.
She had placed them into a black bag.
The car was waiting.
“Where did you take it?” Nora asked.
Andrea hesitated.
“A storage office near the harbor.”
“Did you keep anything?”
She nodded.
“The original assignment slip. I thought something was wrong, so I kept it in case they refused to pay me.”
She removed a folded paper from her handbag.
The slip included the booking number, destination, and a special instruction.
SUBSTITUTE EMPLOYEE — P. COOPER.
Nora carefully photographed it.
Andrea swallowed.
“I never wanted anybody hurt.”
I believed she hadn't intended murder.
But she had accepted money to impersonate someone she had never met.
I wasn't ready to forgive her.
Before we could ask more, Rebecca arrived with news from Vincent's office.
The independent auditors had scheduled a special board hearing.
Celia Ward would be required to explain the questionable transfers.
Vincent wanted me there.
I agreed.
Three days later, I entered the boardroom wearing my mother's blue cardigan and silver bird brooch.
Celia sat at the far end of the polished table.
She was an elegant woman in her late forties, with carefully styled blond hair and an expression so composed it almost frightened me.
When she saw me, her eyes dropped briefly to the brooch.
Then she smiled.
“Miss Cooper. I've heard quite a lot about you.”
I didn't smile back.
“That's interesting. I hadn't heard about you until recently.”
Vincent took his seat.
Rebecca arranged the financial reports.
Nora sat beside me.
The hearing chairman called the meeting to order.
Before Rebecca could present the first discrepancy, Celia rose.
“I believe we should begin by clarifying who authorized the disputed transfers.”
She placed a document on the table.
Vincent glanced at it.
His face changed.
Celia looked directly at me.
“Miss Cooper, you've been told I redirected money without permission.”
She tapped the document.
“But the movement of those funds was authorized by the chairman of Moretti Harbor Holdings himself.”
Then she turned the page toward the board.
At the bottom was Vincent's signature.
Not a printed reproduction.
An original signature in blue ink.
May you like
Celia folded her hands.
“The person who approved those transfers, Miss Cooper, was Vincent Moretti.”
