Chapter 12 - Claire Holloway
Claire Holloway agreed to meet Eleanor the next morning.
Not at an office.
Not at a restaurant.
At Centennial Park.
That alone told Eleanor Claire did not trust electronic privacy.
Rebecca came too.
Claire sat on a bench facing the Parthenon replica, sunglasses covering her eyes despite the cloudy morning.
“I wasn’t sure you’d understand the note.”
“I understood enough.”
Claire removed her sunglasses.
She was forty-one.
Eleanor vaguely remembered her as a college student visiting her father’s law office.
“Did you put it in my bag?”
“Yes.”
“Why not simply speak to me?”
“Because Patricia was watching.”
“Why were you at her party?”
“My husband does business with the Mitchells.”
“Does he know why you contacted me?”
“No.”
Rebecca sat beside Eleanor.
“Tell us what you know.”
Claire inhaled slowly.
“My father represented Richard Carter for almost twenty years.”
“I know.”
“He also represented Charles Mitchell.”
Eleanor stared.
“I did not know that.”
“He kept the matters separate.”
“That would depend on the matters.”
Claire nodded.
“That’s why I’m here.”
After Grant Holloway died eighteen months earlier, Claire became executor of his estate.
Most legal files were transferred to firms or destroyed according to retention rules.
But Grant maintained private boxes at home.
Personal papers.
Old correspondence.
One box contained material related to Carter Regional Development Fund IV.
Claire found it six months ago.
“What material?” Rebecca asked.
“Appraisal drafts. Emails. Payment records.”
Eleanor’s pulse quickened.
“From whom to whom?”
“Charles Mitchell. Blake Turner. My father.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Your father was involved?”
Claire’s eyes filled with shame.
“I think he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That land valuations were being inflated.”
Eleanor looked toward the pond.
For years she had wondered whether Richard’s suspicions died with him.
Now a stranger was giving them shape.
“Why didn’t you contact me six months ago?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of Patricia?”
“Of what this could do to my father’s reputation. His firm. His former partners. Me.”
Eleanor understood the fear.
She did not excuse it.
“What changed?”
“I saw Vanessa spray you.”
The simplicity of the answer surprised her.
Claire looked ashamed.
“Everyone around me laughed or looked away. I looked away too.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Claire continued.
“And I realized that’s what my father probably did. Maybe he didn’t create the fraud. Maybe he simply decided not to look directly at it.”
Rebecca asked, “Where are the files?”
“In a storage unit.”
“Secure?”
“I moved them yesterday.”
“Why?”
Claire looked at Eleanor.
“Because Blake Turner called me three days ago.”
Eleanor felt cold.
“What did he want?”
“He said he heard I was reviewing my father’s old records.”
“How would he know?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I had nothing relevant.”
“Did he believe you?”
“No.”
Claire opened her purse.
She handed Eleanor a photocopy.
It showed a handwritten letter from Grant Holloway to Richard Carter.
The date was six months before Richard’s cancer diagnosis.
Eleanor recognized Grant’s handwriting.
Richard, I believe you should commission an independent review of Franklin. There are inconsistencies I cannot reconcile with the representations Charles and Blake provided.
The next paragraph was more disturbing.
I also believe certain approvals attributed to Eleanor may not have originated from her office.
Eleanor read that sentence twice.
“My approvals?”
Claire nodded.
“There are signatures.”
Rebecca took the copy.
“Forgery?”
“I don’t know.”
Eleanor did.
At least emotionally.
She remembered arguments with Richard about Franklin.
He believed Eleanor had approved certain risk extensions.
Eleanor believed Richard had.
They had blamed each other.
Not bitterly.
But enough to create distance during the last healthy year of their marriage.
Someone may have manipulated them both.
“Did your father send this letter?”
Claire shook her head.
“I think it was a draft.”
“Why?”
“There’s no mailing notation. No copy in the firm archive.”
Eleanor felt suddenly angry at a dead man.
Grant had discovered something.
Then hesitated.
Richard became sick.
The truth disappeared.
“What payments were made?” Rebecca asked.
Claire pulled another paper from her bag.
Three transfers totaling 1.8 million dollars had moved from Mitchell Land Services to a consulting entity called BTT Advisory.
Blake Thomas Turner.
Vanessa had not invented the middle name connection.
Turner had been using it for years.
Eleanor stared at the numbers.
“Dates?”
“Immediately after the inflated Franklin valuations were accepted.”
Rebecca exhaled.
“Possible kickbacks.”
“Or legitimate consulting,” Claire said carefully.
Eleanor appreciated her precision.
“What about your father?”
Claire’s voice broke.
“He received money too.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Richard’s lawyer had been paid by the other side.
Claire began crying.
“I am sorry.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“You didn’t take it.”
“No. But I protected him for six months.”
“You protected your memory of him.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
Claire nodded.
“I know.”
Eleanor placed the documents back inside the folder.
“Is that everything?”
Claire hesitated.
Rebecca noticed.
“No.”
Claire reached into her purse again.
“This is the reason I finally contacted you.”
She handed Eleanor an old photograph.
Richard Carter stood outside a Franklin construction site.
Charles Mitchell stood beside him.
Blake Turner stood behind them.
And beside Blake was a much younger Patricia Mitchell.
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On the back, Grant had written a date and five words:
Patricia knew from the beginning.
