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I take a deep breath and brace myself for the visual onslaught I’m about to face. Grammy Bee loved her trinkets, and patterns, and wallpaper. I always loved that about Grammy Bee’s cottage—the fact that nothing ever changed. Being here was reliable and predictable. Comfortable and homey. I needed that when I was a teenager, maybe more than I realized.
I push the door open with a creak and step inside, breathing in the familiar scents. Despite the place having been vacant for six months, it still smells almost exactly as I remember it. The air is stale, but the faint smell of Grammy Bee’s homemade potpourri, a combination of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus, still hangs in the air. Nothing inside has changed in the past twenty-five years. It’s like being stuck inside a time warp of floral patterns and teacup wallpaper.
I realize how much I need this. To be here. To grieve her properly and remind myself why this place is so special and needs my attention.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the spell. I sigh, annoyed by the interruption. I’ve taken the week off so I can come here and deal with the cottage and finally put the will into probate. Something I should have done months ago. I fish my phone out of my pocket, intending to send the call to voice mail, but pause when Dad flashes across the screen.
There are few people in the world whose calls I don’t avoid. My father, while admittedly not the best at the job of parenting, is still my father and the only parent I have left, so I generally don’t ignore his calls. I answer and put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Donovan, hello, are you still in Chicago?”
Something in his tone unsettles me. “No, I’m already in Pearl Lake. Remember, I’m here to settle the estate?”
“Yes. Of course I remember. We have an issue.”
“An issue?” I cross over to the kitchen and turn on the tap. The water sputters for a few seconds before the pump kicks on. “What kind of issue?”
He clears his throat. “With Adelaide’s Love.”
My mother, Adelaide, died when I was eight years old during surgery to have her tubes tied—and a tummy tuck and a breast lift to restore her body after three pregnancies, per my father’s suggestion—but she had a rare and unexpected reaction to the anesthesia and died of a heart attack. One morning she was there kissing me goodbye, telling me she’d see me after school, and the next, she was gone. The loss threw our family into a state of upheaval.
But when I was in my late teens, I asked if we could create a memorial foundation for Mom, and my dad, of course, said yes. Don’t let that fool you, though. I’m pretty sure my dad agreed to it for an opportunity to rub elbows with the Chicago elite and paint the picture of a devoted husband who wanted his wife’s legacy to live on. Besides attending galas and events in the name of the foundation, I don’t think my father has ever made it much of a priority. But my mother always liked working with children, so I helped create the foundation to provide scholarships to disadvantaged children for their education.
I turn the faucet off and stop moving. “What about it?”
“There’s money missing.”
I sincerely hope my dad isn’t starting to lose his faculties. My grandfather was sound of mind all the way until the end. “I transferred funds last week for the sports scholarship. Right after the board meeting.” For the past ten years I’ve sat on the board of directors, along with my father and siblings, and it has grown into a decent-size fund. While my family’s role is more in name only, I’m actively involved in the management of the fund.
“That’s not the money I’m referring to. If you’ve been having financial troubles, you should have come to me, Van. We could have found a better way to deal with it. Gotten you a loan.”
“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” I don’t have financial issues. I never want to be in the position my father is—always spending money he doesn’t have. It’s gone before it even has a chance to hit his bank account.
“Three million dollars is missing from your mother’s foundation.”
“That’s not possible. The check was for five hundred thousand.” I run a hand through my hair, panic starting to take hold. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”
“I’m afraid it’s not. The board called a meeting this morning after reviewing the books. Millions are missing, and everything is pointing at you, son.”
I drop onto the ancient, faded floral sofa. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would I steal from my own mother’s memorial foundation?”
“Are you telling me you didn’t take it?”
