Chapter 6 - CELESTE’S VERSION
Celeste agreed to an interview only after her attorney arrived.
She chose a conference room at the Rinaldi corporate offices, a
glass-walled space high above the city. From the table, the skyline
looked clean and distant. Celeste sat with her hands folded, a silk
scarf draped over the back of her chair, and a calm expression that made
it difficult to believe she had screamed at a waitress two nights
earlier.
Detective Park opened by asking about the trust amendment.
Celeste said she had coordinated the document review because Dominic’s
father had asked her to keep the family affairs organized during his
final illness. She said the English translation was prepared by an
outside vendor and that she had assumed the legal team had approved it.
“Did you know the Italian annotation required the beneficiary’s written
consent?” Park asked.
“I am not a translator.”
“You told the table the English version was operative.”
“Because that is what the lawyers had said.”
Paolo Moretti, seated beside Park, looked at her. “I did not say that.”
Celeste’s composure wavered, then returned. “You said the final version
had been reviewed.”
“I said the draft had been reviewed. I specifically asked that the
handwritten annotation remain in the final copy.”
“Then perhaps the office misunderstood.”
“Your office,” Dominic said.
Celeste turned toward him. “You are determined to blame me for every
problem that has occurred since your father died.”
“I am determined to know why a false certificate and an altered
translation were used to transfer my authority.”
“No one transferred anything.”
“Someone prepared the paperwork.”
“Not me.”
Park raised a hand before the argument could grow. “We will ask
questions one at a time. Ms. Rinaldi, did you authorize a temporary
vendor to enter the Obsidian Room on the night of the dinner?”
Celeste blinked. “I authorize dozens of vendor arrangements. I don’t
remember every delivery.”
“The vendor record was approved by your office.”
“Then the staff followed normal procedure.”
“The restaurant says no glassware was delivered.”
“I can’t explain a restaurant’s records.”
“Did you contact the sommelier before dinner?”
“No.”
“Did you send a message asking that the bottle be repositioned?”
“Absolutely not.”
Park placed a printout on the table. It showed a message from a number
not yet identified: Reposition the reserve bottle after the first
tasting. The client expects discretion. Celeste read it without touching
the page.
“I’ve never seen that.”
“Do you recognize the wording?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize the number?”
“No.”
The answers were smooth, but they were not evidence. Park moved on.
“Why did you object so strongly when Ms. Bennett corrected the
translation?”
“Because she was a waitress who interrupted a private legal discussion.”
“She was correcting a mistranslation.”
“She was making an accusation she couldn’t substantiate.”
“I said the wording didn’t match the Italian,” I said. “I did not accuse
anyone of a crime.”
Celeste looked at me with contempt. “You wanted attention. You got it.”
I felt the old embarrassment flare, but I did not look away. “If I
wanted attention, I would have taken a photograph and sold it. I gave
the police a statement.”
“Perhaps you expect a reward.”
“No.”
“Everyone expects something.”
“That’s what you believe. It doesn’t make it true.”
Dominic shifted in his chair, but Park kept the interview moving. She
asked about the temporary vendor, the missing appendix, and the notary
certificate. Celeste denied knowledge of all three. When Park asked
whether she had communicated with Rafe D’Amico about the security
system, Celeste said she spoke with him regularly because he managed
security for the family.
“Did you know his credential was used to disable a camera during the
dinner?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him to make the service station inaccessible to the
cameras?”
“Of course not.”
The interview lasted ninety minutes. Celeste did not confess, lose her
temper, or contradict herself in any obvious way. She was too practiced
for that. But the records left behind were more revealing than her
answers. Her office had authorized the vendor entry. Her assistant had
forwarded the trust amendment. Her calendar showed a private meeting
with Rafe the afternoon before the dinner.
None of those facts proved she had arranged the poisoning. Together,
they justified a deeper investigation.
After Celeste left, Dominic remained seated. His face was blank.
“She used to bring my father soup when he was sick,” he said. “She
handled his medication schedule. She was the person he trusted to make
sure he never missed a meeting.”
“People can do kind things and still do terrible things,” Park replied.
“I know.”
I studied the conference table. “Could she have wanted the company
without wanting you dead?”
“Possibly,” Dominic said. “If I were declared incapacitated, she could
control the trust. If I died, the altered clause might give her even
more authority. The wine could have been intended to remove the
uncertainty.”
“Or the poisoning and the document could be separate,” Park said. “We
cannot decide motive before we establish what happened.”
Dominic nodded, though I could see how much he wanted the pieces to fit.
When the interview notes were complete, Park asked me to wait in the
corridor while she spoke privately with Dominic. I did, grateful for the
chance to breathe. Through the glass wall, I could see him listening
with his head bowed. He looked less like an untouchable CEO than a man
discovering that every memory of his family might have another meaning.
Nora came to stand beside me.
“He hasn’t slept properly,” she said.
“Neither have I.”
“I know.”
“Does he always turn fear into work?”
“Usually.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“It is. For him, too.”
I hadn’t expected her to say that.
A few minutes later, Dominic joined us. “Park has requested the
company’s archive of vendor approvals and internal messages. The board
has agreed to suspend Celeste’s access to the trust files while the
review continues.”
“Will she know who asked for it?” I asked.
“She will.”
“And will she know I pointed out the translation?”
“She already knows.”
I swallowed. “Then I want the safety plan updated. I don’t want to be
alone in an elevator with anyone from her office, and I don’t want my
family contacted by private security. Police only.”
Dominic nodded. “Agreed.”
He did not ask me to be brave or tell me that he would protect me. He
accepted the conditions.
That evening, Detective Park called with a new development. The
temporary vendor number had been used to collect a package from a
storage facility in Long Island City two days before the dinner. The
storage unit was leased under a false name, but the payment card
belonged to a shell company connected to a Rinaldi subsidiary.
The unit had been cleared the morning after the dinner.
One item remained in the facility’s inventory record: a small black
equipment case with a silver clasp and a white strip on the side.
The same object visible in the camera footage.
Park said the case was being traced. She also said the storage
facility’s manager remembered the person who collected it.
“A woman,” Park told me. “Dark coat. Italian accent. He thinks she may
have been in her forties.”
Celeste was in her forties.
So were several other women in New York.
I refused to let the detail become a conclusion.
“Did he identify her?” I asked.
“No. Not yet.”
After the call, I wrote the information in my notebook and closed it.
The story was becoming larger, but I could not afford to let suspicion
harden into certainty. Celeste might be lying. Rafe might be
compromised. The vendor might be a decoy. The only thing I knew for sure
was that someone had used a false document and a doctored bottle to
create an outcome that would benefit someone with access to the Rinaldi
family’s private systems.
And the closer we came to proving it, the more dangerous the truth
seemed to become.
That night, I dreamed of the ballroom as it had looked before the police
arrived. The candles were lit. The guests were smiling. Celeste was
speaking with her hand resting on the document, and Dominic was watching
the room as if he could see every possible outcome.
In the dream, I tried to tell him the glass was wrong, but every time I
opened my mouth, the words came out in a language nobody understood. The
guests laughed. Celeste turned away. Then the bottle appeared on the
table again, sealed and perfect, as if nothing had happened.
I woke before dawn with my heart racing.
For several minutes, I sat on the edge of the bed and reminded myself of
the facts. The bottle had been secured. The sample had been tested. The
police had the records. My family was staying somewhere safe. The dream
was not evidence. Fear could replay a memory without adding anything
useful to it.
I made tea and wrote down what I remembered, then crossed out the parts
that had come from the dream rather than the actual dinner. It felt
almost ridiculous, but the exercise helped. I needed to protect my own
memory from the story I was building around it.
When Park called, I told her about the dream only because she had asked
whether I was sleeping. She advised me to speak with a counselor through
the witness-support service. I almost refused out of pride, then
remembered my mother’s advice about not standing alone.
I accepted the referral.
The investigation would require careful attention, but so would my own
May you like
recovery from the fear. I could do both without pretending that one made
the other unimportant.
