Chapter 5 - Sixty Silver Cloches of Pure Retribution
By 11:15 AM, the grand, marble-floored lobby of 1400 North State Parkway was a hive of high-society activity. Valets in crisp burgundy waistcoats were parking an endless stream of late-model Mercedes-Benz sedans, Bentleys, and Maseratis along the private circular driveway. Chicago’s old-money elite—dressed in tailored tweed jackets, pastel cashmere wraps, pearl necklaces, and designer cocktail dresses—were arriving in droves for Fiona Vance’s Diamond Jubilee.
Darcy and I sat in the tinted rear interior of a black Cadillac Escalade parked across the street, watching the spectacle unfold through the one-way glass. Leo sat in the passenger seat with his laptop tethered to the building’s internal closed-circuit security cameras, which Darcy had legally requisitioned via our emergency court order.
“Look at her,” Leo said, pointing to the laptop screen showing the grand foyer of my 4,500-square-foot duplex penthouse.
Fiona Vance was standing near the sweeping spiral staircase, holding a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. She was draped in a floor-length, emerald-green silk gown—a dress that I remembered paying $6,800 for on my Amex card three months ago when she insisted she needed it for a "charity symposium." Her silver hair was coiffed into an elaborate updo, dripping with diamond earrings that Julian had charged to the foundation account.
Beside her stood Julian, looking radiant and utterly untouchable in a custom-tailored bespoke tuxedo, laughing cordially with Arthur Pendelton, the commodore of the Chicago Yacht Club.
“Julian just checked his Rolex for the fourth time,” Darcy observed with a wicked smile. “He’s getting nervous about his sixty courses.”
“He thinks I’m running behind with the delivery van,” I said, looking down at my phone. Sure enough, four missed calls from Julian were sitting on the lock screen, followed by a furious text message:
‘Where the f** are you? Pendelton and the Senator’s staff are in the grand salon! The couriers better be riding up the freight elevator right this second or I will pack your shit and throw it out the window myself!’*
I didn't reply. Instead, I tapped Darcy’s shoulder. “Give the signal to Apex Logistics.”
Darcy picked up her two-way radio. “Team One, this is Sterling. You are cleared for white-glove entry. Deliver all sixty dishes directly to the main dining room table. Stage them in numerical order from one to sixty according to the manifest.”
Two minutes later, a massive, matte-black refrigerated logistics truck pulled into the service bay behind the luxury tower. Six impeccably groomed couriers dressed in formal black waistcoats, crisp white shirts, and black bowties stepped out. Each courier carried an oversized, velvet-lined presentation tray holding ten mirror-polished, heavy silver banquet cloches.
The building concierge, having been informed that a five-star private culinary firm was catering Mrs. Vance’s private luncheon, immediately unlocked the primary express elevator and escorted the team directly up to the top floor.
On Leo’s surveillance monitor, we watched the elevator doors open into the penthouse foyer.
Julian’s face lit up with arrogant relief when he saw the uniformed staff marching in with the gleaming silver domes. He turned to the crowd of eighty elite guests, clapping his hands together to command the room's attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Honored guests, esteemed colleagues, and dear friends of the family!” Julian announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the vaulted ceiling. “The moment we have all been waiting for has arrived! In honor of my beloved mother’s sixtieth birthday—sixty years of grace, sacrifice, and unyielding devotion to high culture—my wife and I have prepared a once-in-a-lifetime heritage banquet. Sixty bespoke, rare culinary masterpieces, each representing a golden chapter of my mother’s extraordinary journey!”
The room erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause. Fiona placed a delicate, manicured hand over her chest, feigning humble embarrassment while soaking in the adoration like a dried sponge in water.
“Oh, Julian, darling,” Fiona trilled, her voice echoing into the microphone set up by the grand piano. “You shouldn't have gone to such magnificent lengths! But that is my son—always putting family honor, tradition, and excellence above all else!”
Arthur Pendelton raised his glass. “To Fiona Vance! The jewel of the Gold Coast!”
“To Fiona!” the eighty guests chorused in unison, clinking their crystal flutes.
On the screen, we watched the six couriers smoothly enter the grand dining room, where a forty-foot banquet table had been set with my grandmother’s gold-rimmed Wedgwood china, sterling silver cutlery, and towering floral centerpieces of white orchids and hydrangeas.
With surgical precision, the couriers placed sixty gleaming silver cloches down the center of the table, thirty on each side, perfectly aligned with the place settings. Each cloche had a small, gold-embossed card resting against its handle, numbered sequentially from 1 to 60.
Julian walked into the dining room, admiring the presentation. He turned to the lead courier, puffing his chest out. “Where is my wife? Is she finishing the dessert platters in the staging kitchen?”
The lead courier, a consummate professional who had received very specific instructions from Darcy, looked Julian dead in the eye without blinking.
“Mrs. Vance has already completed the preparation, sir. She instructed us to inform you that the feast is ready to be served immediately. She requested that you and Mrs. Fiona Vance lift the first cloches personally to commence the Jubilee.”
Julian laughed loudly, waving the guests into the dining room. “You heard the man! Everyone, please, take your seats! Come witness the standard of excellence that defines the Vance household!”
The eighty guests poured into the dining room, marveling at the sheer scale of the sixty silver domes gleaming under the crystal chandelier. Arthur Pendelton took his seat at Fiona’s right hand, while the senior partners from Julian’s former circle seated themselves along the center.
Fiona sat at the head of the table in an ornate, high-backed velvet armchair, looking like a queen presiding over her court. Julian took his place at the opposite end, raising a silver carving fork in one hand.
“Mother,” Julian beamed, his eyes glowing with vanity. “Dish Number One is all yours. Let the feast begin!”
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Darcy turned to me in the Escalade, opening the passenger door.
“That’s our cue, Sloan,” Darcy said, adjusting her designer sunglasses. “Let’s go serve the main course.”
