Chapter 4 - The Pawned Legacy
Rosalina didn't cry. She didn't flinch. When the yellow receipt hit the counter, her whole demeanor changed from panicked socialite to cold calculator.
"Eighteen thousand," she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched whine and taking on a flat, razor-sharp edge. "That’s what that stupid piece of leather was worth to a dealer. To you, it's a shrine. To the museum, it's a tax write-off. But to me, it's three months of payroll."
"Payroll?" Washington gasped. "What are you talking about? Your boutique is thriving!"
"My boutique was bankrupt six months ago, Washington!" she screamed, slapping the island counter. "Because your salary at that firm doesn't cover half of what you promised me! You think I was going to let your mother give away forty grand worth of collectibles to a museum for free while our house goes into foreclosure?!"
The kitchen fell into a stunned silence. Even Jim Bradley looked uncomfortable.
"You stole Samuel's ball," I said, leaning over the counter until I was inches from her face. "You came into my home, used a duplicate key you must have taken from Washington's ring, swapped the ball before my guests arrived, and then staged that dramatic glass-smashing scene to make everyone think it was destroyed or lost in the chaos."
"I was going to say the ball got ruined by the broken glass and swept away," Rosalina sneered, wiping a smudge of dried cream from her cheekbone. "It was perfect. Nobody would have looked for a missing ball in a pile of shattered glass and cake. But you... you had to throw a punch like a trashy bar brawl broad!"
"My mother is a lady," Washington said, his voice quiet, steady, and colder than I had ever heard it. He walked over to his wife, pulled his gold wedding band off his finger, and dropped it into her half-empty water glass. "And you are under arrest."
Jim Bradley stepped forward with his handcuffs. "Rosalina Hollis-Fennimore, you have the right to remain silent..."
As Jim read her rights and led her out the front door, the eleven guests in the living room parted like the Red Sea. Rosalina walked out into the cold February night, cake still dried in her hair, her green velvet dress ruined, stepping into the back of a police cruiser in front of half the neighborhood.
But the victory felt hollow.
Derek looked at his watch. "Mrs. Fennimore... it's 7:15 PM. The halftime ceremony is in forty-five minutes. The network producer just texted me. They are setting up the live field cut to your living room in twenty minutes. If we don't have the championship ball, the Hall of Fame board cannot execute the transfer agreement tonight. The whole broadcast will be canceled."
"Where is the shop?" I asked, turning to Washington.
"High Street," Washington said, grabbing his suit jacket from the chair. "Kruger’s. But it’s Sunday night, Mom. It closed at four o'clock."
"Then we find Mr. Kruger," I said, reaching for my navy winter coat hanging by the door. "Washington, get the car."
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"Mom, you can't go down there in your purple gown," Washington said.
"This gown was what I wore when Samuel took me to the State Final in 1984," I replied, buttoning the coat over the silk fabric. "And I am not changing until my husband's football is back where it belongs."
