Chapter 9 - The Liquidation
By the end of the third week of November, the moving vans had arrived at 1404 Lake Washington Boulevard.
The weather had cleared, leaving the sky an immaculate, crystalline blue over the snow-capped Olympic Mountains across the water. But inside the mansion, the rooms echoed with the hollow, scraping sounds of cardboard boxes being taped shut and heavy furniture being wheeled across the floors.
A large banner was tied across the wrought-iron front gates:
PREMIER PUBLIC ESTATE AUCTION
CONDUCTED BY PACIFIC APPRAISAL GROUP
FINE ART, EUROPEAN ANTIQUES, VINTAGE SILVER, & JEWELRY
Dozens of collectors, antique dealers, and curious neighbors from Bellevue wandered through the rooms with clipboards, inspecting the gilded mirrors, the mahogany dining table where the gravy had spilled, and the crystal chandeliers that had illuminated thirty years of Beatrice’s vanity.
Beatrice stood on the front lawn, wearing a plain black coat she had bought at a department store clearance rack, watching three movers carry out her beloved Louis XV writing desk.
She held a single leather suitcase and a small cardboard box containing her personal photographs.
Jocelyn sat on the stone curb beside her, looking hollow, exhausted, and ten years older. Her Range Rover had been repossessed the previous Tuesday; she had arrived in an eight-year-old Toyota Corolla lent to her by Grant’s brother. Her twins were staying with their paternal grandmother in Spokane while Grant awaited trial at the federal detention center in SeaTac.
A black town car pulled into the driveway.
Marcus Hale stepped out, wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. He walked over to the curb where Beatrice and Jocelyn sat.
"Mrs. Holloway," Marcus said, his tone entirely professional.
Beatrice looked up, shading her eyes with a gloved hand. "Is she here? Did Vivian come?"
"Ms. Holloway is not here," Marcus replied. "She will not be visiting this property again until the clean-up crew has finished their work."
He opened his portfolio and handed Beatrice a cashier's check.
"What is this?" Beatrice asked, looking down at the numbers with trembling hands.
"That is seventy-four thousand dollars," Marcus explained. "Pursuant to the final accounting of the estate liquidation, Ms. Holloway has directed that all proceeds from the sale of your personal furnishings, minus the outstanding utility debts and landscape liens, be disbursed directly to you."
Beatrice stared at the check. Seventy-four thousand dollars. To an ordinary person, it was a substantial cushion. To a woman who had spent fifteen thousand dollars a month on flowers, club dues, and designer wraps, it was a timer ticking down to zero.
"And... and where am I supposed to go with this?" Beatrice asked, her voice cracking.
"My office has secured a six-month lease on a quiet, fully furnished one-bedroom garden apartment in Kirkland," Marcus said, handing her a brass key attached to a plastic tag. "The first six months have been prepaid out of the discretionary fund. The building is safe, quiet, and within walking distance of a grocery store. After six months, the lease payments will be your responsibility."
Jocelyn looked up, her eyes burning with a faint, bitter ember of her old resentment. "And what about me, Marcus? What did my sister leave for me?"
Marcus looked down at Jocelyn with the cool indifference of a tax collector. "Ms. Holloway left you some advice, Jocelyn."
"Advice?"
"Yes," Marcus said. "She suggested you update your resume and apply for that administrative position at your friend’s insurance agency. The one you once told her was suitable for women who work with spreadsheets."
May you like
Jocelyn flinched, looking away, her cheeks burning with an ancient, toxic shame.
Marcus turned on his heel, walked back to his town car, and drove away through the open gates, leaving the two women sitting on the curb of an empire they had burned down with their own hands.
