Chapter 8 - The Council of Vultures
While Lucas was busy discovering the terrifying reality of legal accountability, Beatrice was facing a crisis of her own among the upper echelons of San Diego society.
High-society gossip travels faster than a wildfire through dry eucalyptus brush. By Saturday afternoon, the story of how Beatrice had marched thirty-eight women into Lumina expecting a royal banquet, only to publicly confess to embezzlement and end up saddled with a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar bill, had become the absolute talk of every country club, yacht club, and charity committee from La Jolla to Coronado.
Beatrice’s phone—usually a non-stop lifeline of luncheon invitations, bridge tournament reminders, and committee chair requests—had gone completely dead.
When she attempted to attend her weekly Saturday morning charity league meeting at the La Jolla Yacht Club, the social freezing was absolute. Women who had fawned over her just forty-eight hours earlier suddenly developed an intense, synchronized fascination with the harbor views the moment Beatrice walked through the double doors.
"Good morning, ladies!" Beatrice trilled, forcing a bright, brittle smile as she approached the mahogany coffee station where four of her closest bridge partners were gathered.
Eleanor—the woman who had abandoned her at the table the day before—slowly set down her porcelain teacup, turned around, and looked Beatrice up and down with icy, clinical detachment.
"Beatrice," Eleanor said flatly, her tone devoid of any warmth whatsoever. "I see you managed to survive yesterday's little... financial embarrassment. Though I must say, next time you decide to treat your friends to a royal banquet, you might want to make sure your own credit card isn't declined for insufficient funds first."
A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the surrounding tables.
Beatrice’s face flushed an ugly, mottled purple. "Eleanor! How dare you speak to me that way? That ungrateful chef staged an ambush—she manipulated the situation—"
"She presented the bill that you loudly and proudly claimed was your treat," another committee member interjected, her voice dripping with frost. "We heard every single word, Beatrice. Just as we heard your charming little confession about how your son has been funding his second life by embezzling from his wife's business."
"It was a joke! A figure of speech!" Beatrice shrieked, her voice cracking as heads turned across the entire dining room.
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"Well, the joke is on you now, darling," Eleanor replied coldly, picking up her leather portfolio. "The charity board held an emergency vote this morning. Given your family's... legal developments and recent public scandals, we've decided to relieve you of your position as committee treasurer. Effective immediately."
Before Beatrice could sputter a single word in defense, Eleanor and her companions turned their backs in unison, walking away and leaving Beatrice standing alone by the coffee urn, an isolated relic of a crumbling empire built entirely on sand.
