“I’ve worked in other people’s homes for twenty years,” she said, staring at the scene, “and I have never seen anything like this. That’s it. I’m done. I’m retiring before somebody asks me to explain any of it.”
Ms. Monroe stood up. She picked up the envelope with two fingers, as if it might stain her, read the writing on the front, and turned to Eleanor, who was now sitting on the floor in tea and broken china.
“Eleanor,” Ms. Monroe said in a dry, precise voice, “would you care to explain how charity funds ended up in my handbag? Is this some kind of bribe? Or were you planning something even less intelligent?”
“No—no, Elvira, please, it isn’t what it looks like. I would never—”
“Mom,” Mike said, standing over her, his face changing as the whole picture finally came together. “You spent the entire evening hovering around that bag, grabbing at it, trying to get near it. What exactly did you do?”
“Michael, listen to me. I did not put that money in her bag. I have no idea how it got there.”
“Then how did it get into our guest’s personal belongings?” He bent down, picked up one of the bills, and looked at it. “Fresh hundreds. The charity envelope. This is the money you said you locked in your safe. Mom, I’m asking you one last time. What happened?”
Eleanor looked wildly from Ms. Monroe’s cold expression to her son’s furious one. The label of “bribing a business contact” frightened her more than the truth did, and in that moment she cracked.
“I hid it in their closet!” she blurted. “In your bedroom, under Michael’s shirts. I just wanted that girl caught with it so everyone would finally see what she really is!”
The words hung in the room like smoke. Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Mike straightened and took a step back from her as if he no longer recognized her.
“So you planted the money in our closet?” he said slowly. “You planned this in advance. You picked tonight, with an important guest in the house, just to destroy Regina?”
“Michael, you don’t understand. She is not right for you. She’s just some girl from a small town—”
“Stop.” His voice was quiet now, which was worse. “Do not tell me again who is or isn’t right for me.”
Ms. Monroe set the envelope down on the wet rug, picked up her handbag, gathered the rest of her things, and headed for the door. At the threshold, she turned back.
“Mr. Bennett, professional integrity starts at home. If this is what happens under your roof—planted money, false accusations, family sabotage—then I have serious concerns about doing business with you.”
