Chapter 6 - Champagne and Subpoenas
The white linen party tent on the back lawn of the Lakeview estate was buzzing with the cheerful, self-satisfied chatter of forty women from the Minneapolis Junior League and several local politicians wearing expensive blazers. At the head of the long catering table stood my sister Laura, dressed in an ivory Chanel knit dress, raising a crystal flute of Moët champagne toward a group of admiring society matrons.
“...and really, when you care for an aging parent with advanced neurological decline, you learn that patience is truly a spiritual practice,” Laura was saying, dabbing a pristine linen napkin at the corner of her eye with theatrical grace. “My brother Brandon has been so overwhelmed with his furniture empire, poor thing, that I’ve gladly taken on the full financial and emotional burden of keeping dear old Dad comfortable at our private family sanctuary—”
“That’s funny, Laura,” a cold, hard voice echoed across the manicured lawn, cutting through the jazz playlist humming from the patio speakers like a chainsaw. “Because Dad was telling me just an hour ago that he prefers the interior design of a tin shack by the drainage canal.”
The champagne flute froze halfway to Laura’s lips.
The entire patio went dead silent. Forty heads snapped around in unison.
I walked down the stone steps from the French doors, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my damp overcoat, my boots leaving muddy tracks across the imported Italian marble patio. Behind me, Viktor Vance and the two county sheriff deputies stepped through the glass doorway like an execution squad.
Laura’s face drained of color, her skin instantly turning the shade of spoiled milk. The crystal flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the stone floor with a sharp, lethal crack, the golden champagne pooling around her designer heels like spilled blood.
“Brandon?!” she gasped, her voice pitching up into an unnatural, frantic squeak. “What... what are you doing here? Why are there police officers—?”
Before she could finish her sentence, Marcus Vance stepped out from the interior kitchen doors, wiping his hands on a linen hand towel, a confident, patronizing smirk plastered across his face.
“Alright, brother-in-law, what kind of dramatic stunt are you pulling now?” Marcus sneer-laughed, walking toward me with his hand extended in a mock-friendly gesture. “We’re hosting a charity event, in case you forgot how to read a calendar. You can’t just crash—interrupted by—”
Thwack.
My fist caught Marcus squarely on the bridge of his nose.
The sound of cartilage crunching echoed across the patio. Marcus stumbled backward, tripping over a wrought-iron patio chair and crashing hard into a display table stacked with artisanal cheeses and fruit platters. Grapes and brie exploded everywhere as he clutched his bleeding nose, howling in agony.
“Marcus!” Laura shrieked, dropping to her knees beside her husband. She glared up at me, her eyes spitting pure venom. “Are you out of your mind?! Have you lost your damn mind?! I’ll have you arrested for assault! Deputies, arrest him right now!”
The two county sheriff deputies didn't move an inch. Instead, Viktor Vance stepped forward, pulling a thick stack of blue-backed legal folders from his briefcase and flipping them open.
“Mrs. Vance, I’m Viktor Vance with Vance, Sterling & Cole,” Viktor announced, his voice ringing with professional courtroom authority. “You are not being arrested for assault today, Mr. Miller. However, Mrs. Vance and Mr. Vance, you are both formally being served with a multi-count federal indictment for corporate wire fraud, embezzlement, forgery of power-of-attorney documents, and elder abuse under Minnesota Statute 609.233.”
Laura froze, her mouth hanging open. “Fraud? Embezzlement? That’s... that’s absurd! We didn't forge anything! Brandon signed those corporate transfers himself! We have the server logs!”
“You mean the server logs generated by a proxy routing script installed by a freelance IT contractor named Derek Ross in November 2023?” Viktor asked, raising an eyebrow as he pulled out a certified copy of Derek’s confession and waved it in front of her face. “The same Derek Ross who is currently sitting in a federal prosecutor's office downtown singing like a canary about the ten thousand dollars in cash Marcus handed him in a parking garage?”
Marcus scrambled backward on the floor, blood pouring between his fingers, his eyes wide with blind panic. “He’s lying! That’s an extortion attempt! You can’t prove—!”
“We don't need to prove it with computer files anymore, Marcus,” a quiet, steady voice spoke from the edge of the patio.
The patio crowd parted.
Nora pushed a heavy-duty folding wheelchair up the stone ramp leading from the driveway. Sitting upright in the chair, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, with his white hair brushed and his good hand resting calmly on the armrest, was Walter Miller.
My father looked around the opulent, flower-draped patio, his gaze lingering on the shattered champagne glass, the expensive catering tables, and finally, on his daughter Laura.
May you like
Laura let out a low, strangled gasp, pressing her hands against her mouth. “Dad... daddy... how did you...?”
My father didn't speak. He couldn't form the words. But he slowly raised his right arm, pointing a stiff, trembling finger directly at Laura’s face, and let out a deep, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated disgust.
