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13
Errol stood behind the vintage desk, looking the 1930s businessman and entirely full of himself.
The renovated office was the one room that had changed the most from its original design, with both the walls and floors covered in an orangey wood parquet. The chairs were U-shaped, with an odd-looking lounger to the side and heavy curtains hanging from floor to ceiling, as was typical of the Art Nouveau style of the thirties.
Birdie was familiar with every inch of the renovated office as she had spent several long evenings sweeping it. Looking for something, anything, that would bring the Shepherds down.
There was no telling how many hours she had spent rummaging through the drawers and running her fingers through the seams of the parquet-covered walls, looking for hiding places. All while pining at the loss of the room she and Pearl had curated as a surprise for Marshall.
It had been such a masculine space, with the walls covered in muted grays, a black-and-white photo of the first building his company had designed and constructed the backdrop to the room, spanning the length of the wall behind his desk. A space where he would spend time conducting business on Saturday mornings, always so eager to see Pearl later that afternoon and then spend the day with Birdie and Mia on Sundays.
So far, she had found nothing, except a rare bottle of Macallan in one of the wall panels. She would have opened the seal and helped herself if she hadn’t sworn off alcohol after that horrific night in Wayward sixteen years ago.
With a commanding air, Errol said, “Please have a seat, ladies, and let’s see how we might resolve the issue at hand.”
Birdie grimaced at his calm, reassuring tone as Pinkie sat in one of the U-shaped leather chairs, with Erma barely able to wedge her considerable backside in the other. Willa Mae and Cora Leigh sat side by side on a love seat covered with the same pecan leather upholstery. Ariana remained standing beside Errol’s desk, looking as if she’d stuffed a canary in her mouth and about to burst.
Birdie, unsure of what to expect, remained near the back of the room and next to the door in case she required a quick exit.
Errol spoke. “My mother has informed me of the situation prior to this evening’s festivities, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to hear from you esteemed ladies as to what transpired.”
Birdie refrained an eye roll at the absurdity of what played out before her, but kept it to herself, eager to hear the contrived premise the ladies conjured up.
As if she’d called it, Pinkie assumed the role as orator and walked them through a truly remarkable surging saga. Whereby Birdie had waltzed into Wayward with grandiose promises of a development proposition along Wayward’s coastline that would garner the matriarchs of the small town vast wealth, over the short span of five years, while improving the property values of their surrounding neighbors.
All the women had to do was to financially back the venture. Birdie, claiming a business background in construction—which was actually Marshall’s bailiwick—and commercial real estate, would graciously oversee the project.
Unfortunately, she had skipped town days after divesting the ladies of their entire life savings.
Errol nodded sagely, his finger curled at his mouth as if in deep concentration. He asked questions regarding the plans for construction and the projected earnings. Detailed questions Pinkie responded to with amazing clarity, using a number of advanced financial terms.
That Errol soaked up with dollar signs shooting in his eyes like the slots in a casino.
Pinkie continued, “We have already secured the properties near town and along the coast, spanning over a mile.” She turned a critical eye toward Birdie. “Your wife had claimed to have connections with the Urban Land Institute, whereby providing consultation and best practices concerning urbanization, conservation, and further capital attainment. Basically, all we’ve received are empty promises while she sits fat and happy with our money.”
Pinkie chose that moment to glare accusingly at Birdie.
Nice touch.
Errol said, with a dignified air, “Ladies, I would be happy to take over this project as an apologetic gesture for my wife’s mishandling of your investment. I’m afraid she has a history of questionable business practices, hence why she no longer has a company or controlling shares of Shepherd Industries.”
Birdie fumed. She had run her company with stalwart principles and could only imagine the many ways he was running Marshall’s life’s work into the ground.
If she only could find evidence of it.
Errol droned on, as if the consummate compassionate capitalist. While all Birdie could see was the same man dressed in a white button-up shirt with a Peter Pan collar, his pants around his ankles, waiting to be spanked.
Pinkie asked, “Can you get us in touch with the ULI? The organization that provides consulting services on how to fairly provide a worthwhile project for all of the residents of Wayward?”
“No need. My company is well versed in all matters concerning a responsible and sustainable development project. I will personally provide those services free of charge.”
Of course he would.
Birdie released a doubtful chuckle from the back of the room.
Unfortunately, that caught his attention. “Birdie, my love. Where might we find the money these businesswomen have graciously entrusted you with?”
“Um…” Birdie had no idea how to navigate the lies bandied about without exposing the Pinkie Posse and their fabricated story.
