Chapter 11: Where the Money Went

The emergency meeting was called for Tuesday at eight in the morning, which is when my father liked to fire people.

He said it gave them the whole day to pack.

I got there at seven forty. Clive was already in the hall outside the boardroom, alone, in his best suit.

It was the navy one.

"You wore it," I said.

"It's the only one that's paid for."

He had a banker's box at his feet with his name written on the lid in marker.

"They emptied my office last night," he said. "Marigold let them in."

"You're not even fired yet."

"Your father likes to save time."

The directors came up in the elevator in pairs.

The banker nodded to me. The car dealer didn't. The retired judge said good morning to both of us.

The widow came last, in a yellow linen suit, and stood beside me at the window for a second without speaking.

Then the door opened, and my father said, "Let's get this done."

Clive didn't sit. He stood by the door with his box.

My father didn't ask him to sit.

"Item one," my father said. "Mr. Mercer's seat on this board was mine to give, and I'm taking it back. Effective now."

Nobody objected. It was his seat.

"Item two. Cromwell Group terminates its engagement of Mr. Mercer's firm as counsel. His firm has been notified. They've assigned us a new partner."

Marigold, at his right hand, looked at her nails.

She'd done them in red for the occasion.

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