Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars

by Jason Winn

  Peter ended the call, and for the first time in a while Madison saw her dad smile like he used to, like when they pulled into the campground on a Friday afternoon.

  “There you go,” said Peter.

  “Okay, I’ll do you and Grandmother proud. One more thing—can I get Lionel’s number?”

  Chapter 73

  The next day Madison bounced out of the law offices of Tickle and Embry. Peter Mosby had been there earlier that day to sign over all his interests in Blue Petal, which amounted to a pile of papers the size of a phone book. Madison signed papers for two hours, all in the presence of the notary and trust-managing attorney, Mr. Carlos Embry.

  “How much am I worth, now?” she asked.

  Mr. Embry smiled politely and replied, “The team at Bell, Thornton, and Clay will have to answer that, Miss Mosby. We manage the trust. We do not account for all the assets.”

  “Yes, Dad mentioned accountants yesterday. Were they the ones trying to get him to sell the company?”

  “I believe they looked at that as a favorable deal.”

  Yeah, well, we’ll need to have a little talk, she thought.

  On her way out, Madison dialed up Graves and gave him the good news. And she already had his first job.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Madison barged into the marble-clad offices of Bell, Thornton and Clay, carrying the certification of her sole control over the Blue Petal trust. Graves followed her, smelling of body odor and feet. He still hadn’t showered, just like she’d asked, and his T-shirt now sported a fresh catsup stain. Although now his eyes were clear, thanks to an early morning Moonmilk delivery, and he wore a huge lottery winner’s smile. It was payday.

  The front secretary glanced up at the two of them and asked, “Can I help you?” She batted her eyes the same way Madison’s mother, Helen Cross did. It irked Madison even more.

  Madison took great joy in the woman’s disdainful tone. “We would like to speak with one of the three partners, now.”

  “I see. Do you have an appointment?” She had that old lady hair that looked to have three coats of lacquer on it, and it matched the glasses secured to her neck with the gold chain.

  “No, ma’am. But, this is important.”

  The secretary was polite, professional and carried all the mannerisms of a gatekeeper who had no intention of letting a girl and her homeless companion, barge in here and start making demands. “All of our clients are important. They are all in meetings, right now. Can I get your name?”

  “Madison Mosby.”

  She scribbled Madison’s name on a scrap of paper. “And are you a client?”

  “I am now.”

  The secretary smiled. “And what is your company name?”

  “Blue Petal Foods.”

  The woman stopped scribbling and looked at Madison with contempt in her eyes. “Peter Mosby is the executor of that account. Are you his…,” she paused, looking Madison up and down, “wife?”

  “Gross, no. I’m his daughter.”

  “Yes, well you will have to be accompanied by your parents, if you’d like to speak with Mr. Bell. Blue Petal is his account.”

  Just then, a group of loud old men, wearing suits and smelling of cigars, strolled into the lobby. “We’re going up to see Bell.”

  “He’s expecting you gentlemen.”

  Madison turned to Graves. “I don’t like this one,” she said in a voice loud enough for the woman to hear.

  “Ma’am,” the secretary was fully disgusted with Madison now, “you are going to have to leave and come back when you have an appointment. Mr. Bell may have something open next week.”

  To that, Madison produced a notarized letter from Tickle and Embry, stating that she was the sole owner of Blue Petal now. “I’m guessing this means I’m your biggest customer now and if you want to have a job tomorrow, you’ll get me in with Bell right goddamned now.”

  The woman scanned the document, snatched her phone, and started dialing. Her eyes fluttered, and her lips were pursed tight as a drum. “Wendy? This is June. Is Mr. Bell available for a meeting with Blue Petal? The new owner is down here. Yes, the new owner, Ms. Mosby. Okay, thank you.” She hung up the phone and looked up to Madison. “You can go on up, it’s...”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll follow the laughter and stench of cigars.” Madison turned to Graves. “Do something mean to her. I don’t care for her insolence.”

  Graves locked eyes with the secretary and shuddered for a second. “Done.”

  The two started toward the elevator bank. “What did you do to her?” Madison finally asked as they waited.

  “Told her to send nude photos to her boss.”

  “Ouch. You got your bank account details?”

  Graves tapped the side of his head. “Right here.”

  Madison took a stern tone. “You know I’ll hunt you down and kill you if you run off with the money, right? I just want to be clear on that, now.”

  Graves stuck out his hand. “Deal. All I want is cash and Moonmilk.”

  Madison shook his hand. “You know, I have to ask, why do you look like shit?”

  “You asked me to.” The elevator opened and they got in.

  “No, I mean the other day, when you ran the cops off.”

  “Depression probably. When you ended my career with Trask, the money stopped. When the money stopped, the wife stopped.”

  “You couldn’t just zap her and make her stay? ‘Hey honey, put the suitcases down and stay a while.’ Simple.”

  Graves’s smile disappeared. “I can’t do that to everyone. I was in love with her. It was real.” He turned and stared down at her. “You ever love someone?”

  The door opened and the two of them were staring at the cigar boys being led away from Mr. Clay’s office by a beautiful redhead. They had stopped laughing, and now a solemn undertaker-looking man stood in the doorway of an oak-paneled conference room. Seeing Madison, he started toward the two of them, hand outstretched. “Miss Mosby, congratulations on your new role. We look forward to working with you.”

  “Yes, well about that.”

  “This way, please.” He motioned for her and Graves to follow him into the conference room.

  “I can call the other partners in, if you like.” Mr. Bell closed the door behind him as Madison took in sweeping views of the city below.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  “My assistant tells me you have documentation of the transfer of ownership?”

  Madison produced the letter and slid it across the table. Mr. Bell scanned it in a few seconds before returning it.

  “So, what can we do for you, Miss Mosby?”

  “Why are you telling my father to sell the company? And who were you working with on the inside to get him to sell it to the Dutch?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Graves, get into his head and see what’s he knows about selling the company.”

  “Can do.”

  “I don’t understand, we’ve always...” Mr. Bell’s eyes glassed over and he leaned back in his chair as if he’d slipped into a waking coma.

  “Oh, he’s not thrilled you’re here,” said Graves. “He hides it well on the outside, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And I thought he was happy to see me.”

  “Um, no.”

  “So, did he try to get Dad to sell?”

  “Oh, yeah. And he’s taxing Miss Redhead out there, too.”

  “I don’t care. Who was he working with in Blue Petal?”

  Graves snatched a pen and paper from the stack in the center of the table and started jotting down names. “That’s everyone. Want me to have him jump off the roof?”

  “No. I need him to move some money around. And only the money I say, got that? Don’t go setting up side shit for yourself. We have a deal.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.” Graves threw up his hands as if Madison was pointing a gun at him.

  Madison had
her doubts about that, but she had to trust him. She needed Graves for the war that was going on.

  “Hmm,” said Graves. “From the looks of it, the Dutchmen were promising him a shitload of new clients in the US if the Blue Petal deal went through.”

  “God damn, there’s snakes everywhere. All right, snap him out of it.”

  Mr. Bell sat upright in his chair, a gentle smile on his face.

  “Right,” Madison started, “I have access to funds, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Write this down. I want ten million transferred to…” She pointed to Graves, who in turn rattled off a series of Swiss bank account numbers.

  Mr. Bell scribbled down the numbers. “We can transfer this from the EU banks. It will not be a problem. No American tax issues.”

  EU banks? Madison hadn’t considered that she had money overseas. That was bound to come in handy. She started to wonder, if Nancy Mosby was still alive, was she somehow living off these foreign bank accounts? Living eight years off the grid, a person still had to eat, sleep somewhere, procure transportation. She made a mental note to have these jackals look into that, but later.

  “Graves, make him forget you were ever here.”

  “What?” Mr. Bell started to ask, but he blinked a few times, as if his brain rebooted, free of the glitch of knowing Graves was in the same room as them. This was power Madison could get used to, in a hurry.

  She lowered her voice and donned a stern demeanor. “No more talking to the Dutch. I know they promised you new clients here in the States if the deal went through.”

  “I can assure you, Miss Mosby that…”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Bell. I’m not Peter Mosby, the hayseed. I see right through your bullshit. I so much as smell tulips on you, you’re fired. Got it?” She held his stare until he broke away and looked at his lap.

  “I understand. It was a misunderstanding on our part, and for that I apologize on behalf of the firm.”

  “Now I want a text from you as soon as that transfer is complete. And, I want that today.”

  “It will be done. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “I want a full breakdown of my accounts by tomorrow morning. Have them delivered to my address.”

  ***

  On the way back to Madison’s car, she turned to Graves. “Catch an Uber back to your place, get a shower and some respectable clothes. And text me when you have the money.”

  “I guess I’ll have to go buy a place.”

  “You’re charging me ten mil and you don’t have a house?”

  “Wife took me to the cleaners in the divorce. I had to sell the house I got in the settlement to make the alimony payments.”

  “Hold on a sec, how long have you been divorced?”

  “‘Bout three months. I told you she took me to the cleaners.”

  “You couldn’t just hit the lawyers with a brain beam?”

  “Did you see my eyes when I saved your ass on the street? It would take me months of rest to recover all the way. Where was I going to do that with no money? No Moonmilk, no brain beams. I like that. I’m going to use that one.”

  “Wow, Jesus. Okay, just get your shit sorted out by tomorrow morning and give me a call. We’re going to need to get started right away.”

  Madison pulled out her phone and checked the time—10:30 a.m. Sweet. She could be at Blue Petal corporate headquarters by Dulles Airport before lunchtime.

  ***

  The Blue Petal Campus occupied fifty acres of rolling hills, ponds, and rows of research greenhouses with sweeping views of the Blue Ridge Mountains off to the west. Madison pulled into the spot marked “Mosby,” and strolled in through the front door.

  The air of the senior management wing was sweet with the fragrance of fresh roses, which adorned the sideboards and display tables of an executive waiting room. “She’s here now,” was all Madison heard from her father’s secretary Julie, as she stormed into the sprawling, yet never used office that was once her grandmother’s, then her father’s, and now hers.

  An oak desk, which had once belonged to Virginia governor James Preston, dominated a room covered in fine art featuring Virginia landscapes ranging from tobacco fields, to marshland to mountains.

  “Julie,” was all Madison needed to say as she walked around the desk.

  Julie appeared, dressed in a fine business suit, carrying an iPad and trying to compose herself. She was a tall, spindly blonde, with her hair pulled tightly back in a French braid.

  “Yes, Ms. Mosby?”

  “Was that my father you were talking to?” Madison eased into the leather wingback chair. It was so soft that it felt like a down comforter.

  “No, ma’am. It was Mr. Embry.”

  “Told you the news, did he?” Madison noticed the full bar off in the corner and made a note to give that a once-over, when she was alone, later.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Please get Mr. Lionel Flint on the phone.”

  “Right away. Anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  A moment later, the phone on the desk rang. Madison answered.

  Before Madison cold say hello, she heard, “I’m not coming back, Peter.”

  “This isn’t Peter. It’s his daughter Madison.” For a moment Madison thought about her days at Sky Garden and how Mr. Flint was somehow responsible for that place with its single-ply toilet paper in the employee restrooms, the draconian sick day policy, and the nose-burning cleaner she had to mop the floor with, from time to time.

  “Oh. Hello, Madison. You and I met once a few years ago. Do you remember me? I was the really tall, ugly fella, with the crazy gray hair.” His voice was warm and oozing with charisma.

  “Oh yes. You shook my hand and asked if I liked the barbecued chicken.” It had been an outdoor party, in a park in Alexandria for Blue Petal staff. There had been fireworks that night and Dana had been caught sneaking beers. Shelby had just graduated college, and there was still a glimmer of hope that Nancy Mosby would turn up.

  “What’s on your mind, Madison? It looks like you’re calling from Blue Petal? Visiting some friends?”

  “Not exactly. Um, are you busy, for like the next few years?”

  Mr. Flint responded with a guttural laugh that turned into a fit of coughing. “Well, I don’t know. I had planned on doing some traveling with the kids.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to need you to come back to Blue Petal. You see, we need someone to run the show.”

  “That’s a heck of a proposition. Does your father have you doing the dirty work now?”

  “Not exactly. As of this morning, I own Blue Petal, and I need you to come back here and run the place, same compensation package, the whole deal, while I get up to speed.”

  “I see.” There was a long silence between them.

  “You still there?” Madison finally asked.

  “Oh, I’m here. I’m here. It’s just that I didn’t leave on the best of terms. There’s a group of people there that don’t like me much, and I don’t think I have to tell you that if people don’t like you, you can’t get much done.”

  Madison let out an evil giggle. “You let me worry about those folks. What do you say?”

  “Well, the wife is getting tired of me wandering around the house.” He laughed again, this time without breaking into a coughing fit. “Oh all right, but no more than two or three years. I’m an old fart now.”

  “When can you be here?”

  “Let me get a few things in order, and let’s say next week.”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  Madison hung up the phone. “Julie?”

  Julie appeared again, iPad in hand. Madison produced the paper with the names Graves had gathered from the meeting with the accountant Mr. Bell.

  “Is there a big conference room around here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right down the hallway.”

 
; “Good. Does Blue Petal have a legal team?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the south wing offices.”

  “Tell them to drop what they’re doing and join me there right now. I want them standing behind the head of the table in a row. Tell them to look pissed.”

  “A short-notice meeting, that won’t be a problem.” Julie began tapping away on her iPad. “Okay. You’re all set.”

  God damn, Julie was efficient, Madison thought. She decided the chances of this woman having a mismatched dish, glass or fork in her kitchen was zero.

  “And,” Madison unfolded the piece of paper with the traitor’s names on it, “please have these people join us as well.”

  “Do you want them to line up with the legal team?”

  “No, they are to be at the other end of the table, standing.” Then she thought, like facing a firing squad.

  Julie studied the list. “I believe Ms. Letcher is on travel.”

  “Got a phone in that conference room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get her on it.”

  Chapter 74

  Mr. Baker, Mr. Floyd, Mr. Gilmer, and Mr. Johnson stood in a line at the far end of the executive conference room. Ms. Letcher finally picked up the phone. She sounded like she was in a wind tunnel. A team of ten lawyers stood behind the head of the table, where Madison sat. Julie sat to her right, iPad at the ready. And after informing everyone, as to her recent takeover of the company, she got down to business.

  “Where you calling from, Ms. Letcher?” asked Madison.

  “I’m flying out to Seattle to meet with the vice president of West Coast sales.” She sounded annoyed.

  “Does Blue Petal own the jet she’s in?” Madison asked.

  Mr. Baker, a stout man with annoyingly perfect, yet clearly died hair, answered, “Yes, it is one of ours.”

  Ours?

  “Does it say where you are now, over the country, Ms. Letcher?” asked Madison.