Chapter 5
The first full year of statements looked ordinary until Grant compared them against reality.
Summer camp.
Private tutoring.
Piano lessons.
Children’s clothing.
Medical expenses.
Travel.
Most were legitimate.
That was what made the questionable transactions harder to see.
A fraudulent account made entirely of absurd charges would have been easy.
Margaux had buried questionable reimbursements among real ones.
A $900 winter coat.
A $4,600 equestrian package.
A $7,800 European “language immersion experience.”
Benedict stopped.
“Posy has never been to Europe.”
Grant nodded.
The receipt listed a child beneficiary but not a name.
The dates matched a summer trip Margaux took with Cecily to France.
Another charge involved private dance instruction.
Posy did not dance.
Cecily did.
Then came a cosmetic-dental expense.
Benedict stared at it.
“She’s seven.”
“Cecily had orthodontic treatment last year.”
Grant closed the binder.
The pattern was no longer explainable as gift confusion.
Posy’s beneficiary account had been used repeatedly for Cecily’s expenses.
The amount identified so far exceeded two hundred thousand dollars.
Benedict asked:
“How does a professional trustee approve that?”
“Receipts.”
“Wrong-child receipts?”
“Family office certified the beneficiary purpose.”
“Signed by?”
Grant looked at him.
“Margaux.”
Benedict stood.
He wanted to drive to her house.
Grant saw it.
“No.”
“She stole from my daughter.”
“We are still determining legal characterization.”
“She spent Posy’s money.”
“Yes.”
“On her own child.”
“Yes.”
Benedict took his jacket.
Grant remained seated.
“If you go there angry, every future hearing starts with how a feared Carrow boss showed up at a widow’s house.”
Benedict stopped.
Grant continued.
“Do you want satisfaction tonight or control of the case next year?”
Benedict hated the question.
Which meant it worked.
He sat back down.
Grant ordered a broader forensic review.
That evening Benedict told Posy only what she needed to know.
“Aunt Margaux was wrong about your inheritance.”
“Do I get the presents?”
Benedict almost smiled.
“If you still want them.”
Posy thought.
“The piano is too big.”
“That is true.”
“Cecily likes piano.”
Benedict watched her.
“Do you want her to have it?”
Posy shrugged.
“I don’t want Aunt Margaux to decide.”
Seven years old.
And she had reached the heart of it.
May you like
Benedict nodded.
“Neither do I.”
