Chapter 3 - The Gilded Funeral
The St. Jude's Episcopal Church in the wealthiest enclave of Long Island was filled with the soft, somber scent of white lilies and expensive perfumes.
A massive, closed mahogany casket sat at the altar, surrounded by thousands of imported white roses. The media had gathered outside, their cameras flashing as the wealthy elite of New York high society arrived to pay their respects to the "tragic" Clara Vance and her unborn child.
Daniel Vance stood at the front of the church, dressed in an immaculate, custom-tailored black suit. He held a linen handkerchief to his dry eyes, occasionally letting out a soft, rehearsed sob that made the elderly socialites in the front row sigh with pity.
“Poor Daniel,” a woman whispered from the third row. “To lose his wife and his child in such a horrific way. She was so unstable, you know. Evelyn always said the pregnancy had ruined her mind.”
Beside Daniel stood Evelyn, her posture straight, her face hidden behind a delicate, expensive black lace veil. Her eyes, however, were not crying. They were scanning the crowd, calculating the net worth of every family in attendance, already planning Daniel’s next, more advantageous marriage.
“You’re doing wonderfully, darling,” Evelyn whispered under her breath, her hand resting on Daniel’s sleeve. “Just keep the tears flowing until the press leaves. The probate attorney is meeting us at the estate at three o’clock. By tonight, the Crane shipping accounts will be under our sole control.”
“Is the maid's body still missing?” Daniel whispered back, his voice tight.
“The police chief assured me his divers are still 'searching' the bay,” Evelyn sneered softly. “They’ll find her eventually. A tragic double-suicide. The media loves a tragic ending.”
From the shadows of the choir loft high above the altar, a figure in a heavy black trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat watched the entire service.
Clara looked down at her husband and mother-in-law. Her shoulder was tightly bound beneath her dark clothes, and she had to lean against the stone pillar for support, but her gaze was steady and cold. Beside her stood Marcus Crane, his hand resting on the railing of the loft.
“Look at them,” Clara whispered, her voice like ice. “They’re not even mourning. They’re celebrating.”
“Let them,” Marcus said softly. “The probate attorney they are meeting today is a plant, Clara. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours replacing their legal representative with an investigator from the Federal Securities and Exchange Commission. When Daniel signs the probate transfer documents today, he won't be taking ownership of your father’s company—he will be signing a declaration of asset surrender under federal investigation.”
Clara watched as Daniel walked up to the casket, placing a single white rose on the polished wood.
“I want to be there when the trap springs, Marcus,” Clara said, her fingers tightening on the railing. “I want to see the look on Daniel’s face when he realizes his 'perfect crime' was just a leash he tied around his own neck.”
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“We’ll be there,” Marcus promised. “But first, we have to secure the shipment at Port Newark tonight. The cargo ship The Sea Sovereign is docking at midnight. Daniel’s smugglers are preparing to move twenty million dollars in stolen antiquities. If we catch them in the act, the federal warrant will be executed immediately.”
Clara looked back at the altar one last time as the choir began to sing a somber hymn. She turned her back on her own funeral, stepping into the dark stairwell, ready to reclaim her life.
