Chapter 7 - The Unravelling
Saturday morning brought a cold, pale sun that lit up the ice-covered trees of Northwood like glass chandeliers.
The news had reached the Boston newspapers by eight o'clock.
The headline on the front page of the Boston Globe was relentless:
MARITIME TYCOON SAVED FROM BLIZZARD BY TEENAGER; SON ARRESTED IN $400M CONSPIRACY
Below the headline was a photograph of Edward Fitzgerald being led down the stone steps of the Northwood District Court in handcuffs, his coat thrown over his wrists to hide the steel, his head bowed against the flashing cameras of forty reporters.
At 414 Maple Street, the three envelopes beneath the blue sugar bowl were still waiting.
Mary Miller sat at the kitchen table with her small brass reading glasses on, looking at the letter from the landlord. The rent was three hundred and eighty dollars past due.
There was a soft knock at the front door.
Abigail opened it to find two men in charcoal grey suits carrying three large leather boxes and a wooden crate filled with silver-wrapped parcels from a high-end grocer in Boston.
Behind them stood Julian Mercer, holding a thick leather portfolio under his arm.
“Good morning, Miss Miller,” Mercer said, stepping into the narrow hallway with a polite bow. “Mr. Fitzgerald asked me to deliver these to your mother, and to request your presence at his home on Oak Ridge Drive at two o'clock.”
Mary came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Mercer, please... we can’t accept gifts. We didn't help Mr. Fitzgerald for money.”
Mercer smiled—a warm, genuine smile that transformed his sharp lawyer’s face.
“These aren't gifts, Mrs. Miller,” Mercer said. “They are back wages.”
He opened his portfolio and laid three official documents on the kitchen table, right beside the blue sugar bowl.
The first was a bank draft made out to Mary Miller in the amount of twenty-four thousand dollars—representing five years of full-time service at the highest market rate for specialized domestic care, plus interest.
The second was a deed of full discharge from Northwood Regional Hospital, stamped PAID IN FULL in bright red ink, covering every penny of the debt Mary had accumulated during her late husband’s illness four years ago.
The third was a simple white card with an address printed in gold leaf:
1200 Oak Ridge Drive Northwood, Massachusetts
Mary Miller – Head of Domestic Operations Salary: $85,000 / year plus health benefits and pension.
Mary stared at the papers. Her fingers touched the red ink on the hospital discharge paper, tracing the stamped letters as if she expected them to smudge under her skin.
“This... this is too much,” Mary whispered, her eyes filling with tears that made her small glasses fog over. “I clean floors, Mr. Mercer. I don't... I’m not a head of anything.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald’s estate has twelve bedrooms, three dining halls, and forty acres of gardens, Mrs. Miller,” Mercer said quietly. “For the last three years, it has been run by people who looked at an old man and saw a legal obstacle. He needs someone who knows how to keep a house warm.”
He turned to Abigail.
“And for you, Abigail,” Mercer continued, pulling a blue velvet box from his pocket, “Mr. Fitzgerald asked me to give you this before you come to the house today.”
Abigail opened the box.
Inside lay a small, heavy silver key on a thin leather cord. Attached to the key was a silver tag engraved with two words:
Algebra Workbook
May you like
Abigail looked up, her heart beating fast. “What does this fit?”
“The brass chest in his private library,” Mercer said with a slight wink. “He said you’d know what belonged inside.”
