Chapter 3 - The Breakfast of Vipers
At 8:00 AM, the sun was fully up over Charleston, casting a warm, golden glow across the private garden terrace of the Bellweather Hotel.
A long linen-draped table was set for the post-wedding family breakfast. Silver platters of smoked salmon, fresh pastries, and crystal carafes of mimosas sat untouched under the white umbrellas.
Diane Whitmore sat at the head of the table.
She had completely recovered from her 'intoxication.' She wore a fresh ivory linen pantsuit, her pearl necklace gleaming against her throat, her hair immaculate. She was sipping Earl Grey tea, laughing delicately with her sister, Eleanor, while reviewing a Charleston society magazine.
Eric sat to her right in a crisp navy blazer and white trousers. He was tapping away on his iPad, his face radiating the triumphant, relaxed ease of a man who believed his financial survival had been permanently secured.
"Where is Claire, darling?" Diane asked, setting her teacup down with an elegant porcelain click. "She really shouldn't sleep the entire morning away. The guests will be arriving for the farewell brunch in an hour."
"She’s probably just exhausted, Mom," Eric smiled, not looking up from his screen. "I’ll go up and wake her in a few minutes. We have the trust documents to review before the notary arrives at noon."
"Good," Diane purred. "A good wife learns quickly that family business takes precedence over personal leisure."
"I couldn't agree more, Diane."
The voice came from the stone pathway leading from the garden arbor.
Eric’s head snapped up.
I walked onto the terrace wearing my dark trousers and cashmere sweater, carrying a sleek black leather portfolio under my arm.
Beside me walked Harrison Vance, Sentinel Arc’s general litigation counsel, and two forensic investigators from the United States Secret Service Electronic Crimes Task Force.
Eric’s smile tightened slightly, a flicker of uneasy confusion crossing his handsome features. "Claire? Why are you dressed like you're going to a board meeting? Where’s your sundress?"
I walked up to the table, standing directly opposite Diane.
I pulled out a chair, sat down, and laid the black leather portfolio flat on the white linen.
"I’m dressed for a board meeting, Eric," I said evenly, "because Sentinel Arc convened an emergency executive session at seven o'clock this morning."
Diane let out a light, patronizing chuckle, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, Claire. Must you bring your little startup drama to the breakfast table? You are a married woman now. You should be focusing on your husband and your new family, not running back to your computer servers."
"My 'little startup' is currently working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Diane," I replied softly.
I opened the portfolio.
I pulled out three high-resolution, full-page photographic stills extracted from the hidden camera feed:
The first showed Diane on her knees by the mattress, applying the adhesive tape.
The second showed Eric holding the champagne bottle, his mouth open as he asked if the drug would keep me out long enough.
The third showed a digital scan of the cloned clonazepam prescription vial recovered from Diane’s handbag twenty minutes earlier.
I slid the three photographs across the table, stopping them directly beside Diane’s teacup.
May you like
Diane looked down.
The teacup slipped from her manicured fingers. The fine bone china shattered against the marble patio table, splashing hot Earl Grey across her ivory linen trousers.
