Chapter 5 - The Stolen Pool
Merrick looked as though the floor beneath his feet had suddenly turned to liquid. His eyes darted toward the door, but two hotel security officers—men who reported directly to the corporate office, not the local banquet team—had already taken up positions just inside the entrance, their arms crossed.
“Mrs. Varden, please,” Merrick begged, his palms slick with perspiration. “The tip distributions are calculated according to corporate formula. I only follow the guidelines handed down by banquet management—”
“The guidelines,” Rowena interrupted, picking up an iPad from the conference desk, “state that all eighteen percent of the automatic service charge on private banquets is to be distributed proportionally among the floor staff, dishwashers, and bussers within seven business days.”
She tapped the glass screen twice.
“This evening’s wedding reception carried a total catering and beverage invoice of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” Rowena said, her voice ringing with the precision of an experienced auditor. “The service charge amounted to thirty-two thousand four hundred dollars. Thea, how much were you paid in tips for the grand gala three weeks ago?”
Thea stepped forward slightly, conscious of the dirt on her shoes and the stain on her apron. “We haven't received anything for September, ma’am. Merrick told us the pool was light because of client deductions.”
“Client deductions,” Rowena repeated, rolling the words on her tongue like something rotten. She slid the tablet across the table so that it rested right in front of Merrick. “Then why does the Larkmore account show that thirty thousand dollars from that gala was diverted into a secondary corporate shell entity registered under the name Sloan Hospitality Consultants?”
Merrick sank down onto the nearest chair, his face completely pale.
“You’ve been doing this for eighteen months,” Rowena said coldly. “Skimming forty to sixty percent of the waitstaff’s earnings into your personal account, telling these hardworking men and women that the wealthy clients simply weren't tipping, or that banquet breakages had eaten into their margins. You stole from single mothers. You stole from students trying to pay their tuition. You stole from people who stand on their feet for twelve hours a day while you sit in an air-conditioned office picking your teeth.”
“I—I had debts,” Merrick whispered, his voice cracking. “Mrs. Varden, please. My wife is expecting. If this goes to the district attorney—”
“It is already with the district attorney,” Rowena stated without an ounce of hesitation. “Detective Alvarez is waiting in the lobby with a warrant for your personal laptop and financial records. Officers, escort Mr. Sloan down the service elevator. I don't want him walking through the lobby where my guests can see him.”
The two security officers stepped forward, flanking Merrick and hauling him out of his seat. As they dragged him toward the side door, Merrick looked back at Clara Varden, his eyes filled with desperate, frantic rage.
“She told me to do it!” Merrick screamed, pointing at Clara as the door began to shut. “She told me she would back me up if anyone asked! She took twenty percent of the kickback to cover her personal catering expenses! Ask her! Look at her accounts!”
The door clicked shut, cutting off his frantic cries.
In the boardroom, the air grew even thinner. Clara stood rigid, her manicured nails digging so deeply into the palms of her hands that a drop of blood threatened to breach the skin.
“Rowena, he is a liar,” Clara said through clenched teeth. “A thief trying to save his own skin by dragging down the family name.”
“We will let the forensic accountants determine that tomorrow morning at eight,” Rowena replied smoothly. “Your personal access to the Varden Family Trust accounts has already been suspended pending the audit.”
“You can’t do that!” Clara gasped, her voice losing its icy control, panic finally breaking through. “That trust funds my residence! It funds Callum’s business ventures! You can't cut me off over the word of a fired manager and a waitress!”
“I built that trust, Clara,” Rowena said, leaning back into her leather chair, her gaze unwavering. “I dug the foundation of this very hotel with my late husband when we had sixty dollars in the bank and a baby sleeping in an orange crate behind the kitchen. I can cut off whatever branch of this tree has begun to rot. And right now, Clara, you are rotting.”
Avalene was staring at Clara in utter horror. “Wait... what did she just say? Suspended? Callum’s business ventures are funded by the trust?”
Callum let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping over concrete. He turned to his bride, his eyes hollow.
“Did you think I made twenty million dollars on my own at thirty-four, Avalene?” Callum asked, his voice dripping with disgust. “Did you think the venture capital fund I run was built from scratch? It’s all Grandmother’s money. Every single cent. The house in the Hamptons, the condo in Manhattan, the car you drove here in. It’s all hers. And without her signature, I am just a man with an expensive suit and a lot of debt.”
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Avalene staggered backward, her hands flying to her mouth, the realization crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She had spent the last two years plotting, climbing, maneuvering her way into high society, enduring Clara’s condescension, and curating the perfect aesthetic—only to realize she had just assaulted the woman holding the entire purse.
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