“Oh, Molly,” Mrs. Sparrow replied, “I’m certain my son doesn’t have time for that. He hardly has time for his own mother. He can’t give me more than five minutes’ notice of his arrival.” She turned to Sparrow as he pulled back a chair and gingerly sat. “Did it ever occur to you that I had plans?”
“Do you?”
“Do I?”
“Have plans?” he clarified.
“Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting some of the ladies for lunch today at the tea room.”
“It’s ten in the morning. I think you’ll make it.”
After taking a sip of her tea, she placed the cup upon the saucer. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Will I be able to tell my friends that I will finally have a grandchild?”
My eyes widened as I too sat, avoiding Sparrow’s expression. Technically, Ruby was Allister’s grandchild. It would be a cold day in hell when Genevieve made that connection with anything other than repulsion.
“Not today,” Sparrow replied.
“Of course not. That wife of yours is too busy with her business and foundation. There was a time when women in the position she’s acquired through marrying you would do what was expected and acceptable. I’m certain you must realize that her foundation does nothing but stir up things better left untouched?”
Recently, a client of the Sparrow Institute wrote a bestselling book about her experience as a victim of sex trafficking. She’d bravely named names. Perhaps it was the arrest of Rubio McFadden that gave her the strength to name him; however, his wasn’t the only name she gave. The media ran with it and the tremors were felt throughout the city of Chicago and beyond.
No doubt, Mrs. Sparrow’s concerns weren’t for the McFadden outfit, but that if this woman could write a book like that, so could someone associated with Allister Sparrow.
When Sparrow didn’t reply, she added, “Are you prepared for that negative PR?”
“Mother,” Sparrow said, refusing to take the bait against Araneae. “I called you the other day about Marion Elliott’s bid to renew the tax break he’d acquired for a facility in McKinley Park. Closing that facility would result in the loss of nearly six hundred jobs. With the recent loss of seasonal jobs, Chicago’s employment numbers will take a hit.”
“Yes, yes, we’re aware.” She was speaking of the aldermen of Chicago, the governing body who reported to the mayor. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d left well enough alone. Now, signing off on anything that was previously associated with Rubio is a bad publicity move.”
“Since when do you care about publicity?”
Her lips pursed. “This whole atmosphere is toxic. With the mayor up for reelection, the new mayor could decide it’s time to clean out the old guard. No alderman position is ensured.”
“Toxic?” I asked.
“Well, yes. Things worked so much better the way it used to be.”
Sparrow’s head shook. “So are you telling me there is absolutely no plan for the council to approve Marion Elliott?”
“No. It’s dead in the water. A shame really. I’ve met him a few times over the years. He’s such a nice man.”
This time it was me who had a physical reaction to her assessment. Thinking that anyone would characterize Elliott as a nice man made the breakfast I’d eaten with everyone in Sparrow’s kitchen roil in my gut.
“Mother, there are a few available facilities in Bedford Park that would accommodate Elliott’s tenant. The sizes are right, and a few of the facilities don’t need much in the way of renovation. What are the chances that the council would approve the tenant moving with the tax breaks they are about to lose intact and signing a lease? Chicago would keep the jobs and it would bring life back to an abandoned facility.”
“And abandon another,” she said.
“It will be abandoned anyway. The company is leaving if they can’t get the tax breaks. Feelers have been put out for out of state. Wisconsin and Indiana have made competing offers. Wouldn’t it be better if the company stayed here?”
“I suppose it was Mr. Elliott who worked with Rubio, not the tech company. Would Mr. Elliott be excluded from the deal?”
“That is the plan.”
“Hmm,” she hummed as she took another drink of her tea.
“Can you bring it up to the other aldermen and get back to me?”
“Sterling, if you want it so badly, you have the power to make it happen.” She lowered her cup to the saucer.
“I’m using that power here and now,” he said, “without a direct trail to me.”
Genevieve lifted the small teapot from the table and poured more tea into her cup. Her eyes, the color of her son’s, gazed from Sterling to me. “Are we done?”
“Mrs. Sparrow,” I began, “are you or were you at all familiar with the Charitable Heart Mission in Englewood?”
Her lips formed a straight line as she stared my direction. “I believe it closed a few years ago.”
“Do you know why?” Sparrow asked.
“It, like others, lost funding as I recall.”
“The grant that had funded it was from the city,” I said.
“Yes, it was a pet project of one of the elder aldermen.” She turned to Sparrow. “Certainly you know him. He sometimes went by the name Miller, which was quite fun.” She leaned forward as if she were telling a secret. “You see, his name was Millstone.”
“Millstone?” I asked.
“Jerry Millstone?” Sparrow asked.
“Yes, yes. He had a few of those projects around the city. I believe that the Charitable Heart Mission was run by a young couple. I’m not privy to the reasoning, but I believe it was after your father passed that the young couple moved away. With no one else to run it to Jerry’s specifications, we discontinued funding.”
“Jerry Millstone went by the name Miller?” Sterling asked.
Mrs. Sparrow waved her hand. “Oh, it was a while ago. I know you wouldn’t care, but Jerry was a friend of your father’s—if your father could be said to have had friends. They were acquaintances. I remember his wife, Wendy. I believe they left Chicago; it was before the whole McFadden fiasco. They moved to California to be closer to their children.” She reached over to Sparrow’s arm. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have our children close.”
“Speaking of friends of my father,” Sparrow said, placing his elbows on the table and bringing the tips of his fingers together, “did he ever father children with any of his mistresses?”
Mrs. Sparrow’s eyes widened as she choked on her tea. “Sterling Sparrow, why would you even ask such a question?”
“Let me just say that recent events have caused me to be curious.”
Her bony fingers came to the table as she pushed her chair back and stood. “This is not a topic of conversation that a son discusses with his mother.”
“Then who should I ask? Did he keep a journal of women and children? Who would you suggest I go to who will have the answers?”
“No one,” she replied defiantly. “There are no other children. Sterling, you are your father’s sole heir. You never need to worry about that. If anyone ever tried to make a claim on your assets, I can assure you that party would be a gold-digging liar.”