Chapter 5 - The Midday Tea
At 12:45 PM, the sun was striking the blue-stone terrace of 442 Mountain Top Road at an angle that made the heated saltwater pool gleam like an emerald.
Lorraine Sterling was sitting in the teak chaise lounge—the one she had insisted on having shipped from an estate sale in Newport—wearing an oyster-colored cashmere cardigan over her silk pajamas. Her legs were covered with an alpaca throw, despite the midday temperature being seventy-two degrees.
On the table beside her sat a bone-china cup of Earl Grey, three butter biscuits on a silver dish, and a leather-bound address book from which she was planning her annual summer garden party for the benefit of the Morristown Symphony.
"Richard!" she called toward the open French doors. "The tea is tepid. Where did she put the ginger marmalade?"
There was no answer from inside.
Celeste appeared on the terrace, wearing her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses and a white linen tunic that had cost four hundred dollars at an upscale boutique in Madison—charged, as usual, to the "Sterling Household Maintenance" card.
"She’s not here, Mom," Celeste said, slumping into the matching chair and checking her notifications. "Her car is gone. The garage door was left open again. She has no consideration for security. Mark’s boat trailer is still on the grass because she didn't move the Volvo before she stormed off."
"Inconsiderate," Lorraine murmured, dabbing her dry lips with a napkin. "She knows my knees cannot manage the steps to the pantry. Did she prepare the chicken salad before she left?"
"I didn't look," Celeste said. "Richard is in the study screaming at someone from the bank. Something about an authorization error on the line of credit. He’s in a foul mood."
"Well, he shouldn't be dealing with money before lunch," Lorraine said, closing her address book with a snap. "It ruins the digestion. When Renata gets back from her shift, I want you to tell her that I will not tolerate this sullen behavior. When my Arthur was alive, if a wife walked out of the house with dishes in the sink, she was back within an hour with an apology."
"She thinks she’s indispensable because she works at that hospital," Celeste said, curling her lip. "Surrounded by all those common union people. Richard should have made her resign ten years ago. It’s bad for the brand."
Inside the house, the oak door of the study slammed against the wall.
Richard walked out onto the terrace. His hair was uncombed, his navy polo shirt was rumpled, and his face was the dark, mottled color of a bruised plum. In his right hand, he held a tumbler of bourbon; in his left, his iPhone.
"The account is locked," he said. His voice was high, tight, vibrating with an incredulous rage. "The automated system says the tax ID is suspended pending administrative review. The branch manager won't take my calls. He had his secretary tell me they’ve referred the file to legal."
Lorraine frowned, her delicate white eyebrows meeting above the bridge of her thin nose. "Legal? What does that mean, Richard? Why are the bank people speaking to legal about our money?"
"It’s a mistake," Richard barked, though the fingers holding the tumbler were shaking slightly, the ice cubes clinking like small bells. "Some clerk in compliance made an error with the corporate filings for Vanguard. It’ll take forty-eight hours to untangle. But Renata isn't answering her phone."
"Of course she isn't," Celeste said. "She’s punishing you because you were firm with her last night."
"Firm?" Richard laughed, a short, ugly bark. "I barely touched her shoulder and she dropped like a sack of wet concrete. She probably went to a motel to feel sorry for herself. She has nowhere else to go. Her entire family was six different foster homes in Cleveland. She doesn't have a single person in the world who would take her in for more than a weekend."
He drained the bourbon in one long, desperate swallow.
"When she comes through that door," Richard said, staring out over the lawn toward the long, tree-lined driveway, "she signs the bank papers before she even takes off her shoes. Or she can find somewhere else to live."
"Make sure she does the laundry first," Lorraine said, leaning back into her cushions. "The guest sheets have that musty smell again."
Down at the base of the driveway, two miles from the country road, the iron security gates clicked.
The heavy black bars began to swing inward with a low, mechanical hum.
Celeste lowered her sunglasses. "Is that Mark? He said he wasn't coming back until three."
A black Ford Crown Victoria with gold state emblems on the door panels turned slowly into the drive, followed immediately by a white Dodge Durango bearing the insignia of the Morris County Sheriff’s Department.
Behind them came a silver Mercedes sedan that Richard didn't recognize.
The three vehicles didn't speed. They moved up the hill in a tight, formal procession, their tires crunching softly against the crushed limestone gravel.
Richard set his glass down on the teak table. "What the hell is this?"
"Did you forget to renew the security alarm permit again, Richard?" Lorraine asked, her voice sharp with annoyance. "I told you the borough was threatening to send someone if you didn't pay the seventy-five dollars."
The two police vehicles stopped in the circular turnaround in front of the terrace, blocking Richard’s Mercedes and Celeste’s Audi.
Four uniformed deputies stepped out.
The man in the lead was Captain Donald Miller—fifty-five, broad-shouldered, wearing the gold star of the sheriff's command staff and a gun belt that squeaked with fresh leather. In his left hand, he carried a heavy aluminum clipboard; in his right, a blue legal folder.
Following him from the silver Mercedes was a young woman in an expensive gray wool suit with a leather briefcase: Daniel Prescott’s senior associate, Elizabeth Chen.
Richard stepped to the edge of the terrace, puffing his chest out, his hands dropping into his pockets in an instinctive posture of suburban authority.
"Donald," Richard said, using the first name with an easy, country-club familiarity. He had met Miller once at a fundraising dinner for the county prosecutor. "What’s the problem here? An alarm trip?"
Captain Miller didn't smile. He didn't offer a hand. He stopped at the foot of the bluestone steps, looking up at Richard with eyes that were entirely opaque.
"Richard Sterling?" Miller asked.
"You know who I am, Donald," Richard said, a nervous chuckle catching in his throat. "What’s going on?"
Miller opened the blue folder.
"I have a warrant for your immediate removal from the premises under an order of temporary protection issued this morning by Judge Callahan of the Superior Court, Chancery Division, Family Part."
The silence on the terrace was sudden and absolute. Even the cicadas in the maples seemed to stop.
Lorraine sat up, the alpaca throw slipping from her lap to the stone floor. "What did you say? This is the Sterling residence. You have no right to come onto this private property and speak to my son in that manner."
Miller didn't even look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on Richard.
"The order is effective immediately," Miller said, his voice flat, carrying the mechanical cadence of a man reading a Miranda warning. "You are commanded to surrender all keys, access codes, garage openers, and security credentials for the property located at 442 Mountain Top Road."
"This is insane," Richard said. The plum color had drained from his face, replaced by a gray, chalky pallor. "Renata fell. She tripped on the runner. It was an accident! We had an argument about household matters—"
"Mr. Sterling," Miller interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that brook no debate. "The court has reviewed the photographic evidence, the medical intake records from Saint Barnabas, and the verified statement of the victim. A finding of domestic violence has been entered on an ex parte basis. You have ten minutes to collect one bag of clothing, your personal medication, and your driver's license. You will be escorted off the property by Deputy Ramos."
"Ten minutes?" Celeste shrieked, jumping to her feet. "Do you know who we are? My father was Arthur Sterling! We have lived in this county for fifty years!"
Elizabeth Chen stepped forward, clicking open her briefcase. She did not raise her voice; she spoke with the clinical precision of an actuary reading a death benefit.
"Miss Sterling," Chen said, pulling two documents from the interior sleeve. "My name is Elizabeth Chen, representing Renata Mercer. The property in which you are currently standing is not, and has never been, the Sterling family residence."
She handed a certified copy of the deed to Richard, who took it numbly with fingers that seemed paralyzed.
"The property is titled solely and exclusively in the name of Renata Mercer," Chen said. "She has entered into a legally binding contract of sale with Blackwood Holdings, LLC. The closing is scheduled for June first."
She turned to Lorraine, who was clutching her throat with one liver-spotted hand.
"Lorraine Sterling," Chen continued, extending a white document. "You are formally served with a Notice of Revocation of License to Occupy. You have forty-eight hours to vacate the guest suite. At one o'clock on Thursday, the Morris County Sheriff’s Department will execute a writ of possession. Any property remaining on the premises after that hour will be deemed abandoned and disposed of pursuant to New Jersey Revised Statutes Title 2A:18-72."
Lorraine looked at the paper as if it were a dead snake. "She... she sold the house?"
"She has sold *her* house," Chen corrected. "For cash."
"You can't do this!" Richard yelled, his voice cracking into a shrill, hysterical falsetto. He lunged down the first step toward Chen. "She’s my wife! This is marital property! Every stick of furniture in this house was bought with—"
Deputy Ramos, a six-foot-three former Marine with arms like hams, stepped smoothly between Richard and the attorney. His hand rested lightly on the retention strap of his Glock.
"Back up to the patio, sir," Ramos said. His voice was very soft. "Do not advance on the counsel. Do not advance on the officers. You have eight minutes remaining."
Richard looked around the terrace.
The blue-stone flagstones he had bragged about at the Baltusrol grill.
The Sub-Zero wine unit visible through the kitchen window.
The lawn that sloped away to the oak trees he had told everyone had been planted by his great-grandfather.
It was not his.
It had never been his.
"Where..." Richard’s mouth worked, but the saliva had dried up. He looked at Captain Miller with the wide, blank eyes of a steer in a stunning chute. "Where am I supposed to go?"
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"That," Miller said, checking the second hand of his watch, "is a question for your attorney. Seven minutes, Mr. Sterling. Let’s go inside and watch you pack."
***
