InSight

wore.
    “Let me give you some background, Abigael. The Gentry name is as revered in the South as the Kennedy name is in New England . What isn’t known is the profligate ways each generation contributed to the demise of their fortune: gambling, hedonism, bad investments, and let’s not forget the headline-making and very costly divorces. By the time I met Martin, his name was all that remained.
    “My father worked hard to amass his fortune. We lived in a gated mansion and I went to the best schools money could buy. But Boston society wanted nothing to do with Anthony Serrano, an old-world junkman as far as they were concerned, no matter how many millions he accumulated. And rumors of mob associations never helped our ascent up the social ladder.”
    Abby heard the sting of rejection in the woman’s voice even after all the years, detecting a crack in her self-confident façade.
    “My marriage to Martin Gentry changed all that by giving him what his family had squandered ― his inheritance ― and by giving my father what had eluded him—respectability. We all got what we wanted, didn’t we?”
    Abby didn’t answer.
    “We showed everyone. Boston ’s elite now bow to Anthony Serrano, and the Charlestonians genuflect to me.”
    Carlotta Serrano Gentry waited her whole life to explain herself, and Abby served as the perfect confidant. She’d know it all and take the story to the grave.
    “The Gentry-Serrano Foundation was my brainchild,” she continued, “and I cultivated it like a botanist cultivates a rare orchid. You can’t imagine the thrill of seeing my father’s name hyphenated with Gentry and associated with one of the most philanthropic organizations in the world. Martin stayed in the background and rarely got involved. Then certain events piqued his interest and he delved deeper. He didn’t like what he found. I couldn’t let him destroy the foundation or what my father worked for his whole life, and that’s what he threatened to do.
    “You see, deep down—or maybe not so deep—Martin resented the Serrano money. He resented that this upstart dealer in trash saved the mighty Gentrys from financial ruin by bargaining off his daughter. Not that I minded. Martin was handsome and charismatic. He swept me off my feet because his father told him to, and I loved every minute of it.”
    Mrs. Gentry paused. Abby didn’t move.
    “I’m sure you recall, Abigael, I’m not what one would describe as a raving beauty, but Martin made me feel like one. Even when I knew he came to my bed from another’s, I didn’t care. When we were together, he made me feel like I was the only person in his world.”
    She stopped her monologue. Abby wondered if she was finished.
    “Sorry. The thought of Martin, so virile and handsome, caused a momentary lapse of concentration. He was brilliant, his business sense innovative. Being a lawyer, he knew all the angles to entice people into backing his ventures, especially contributing to the foundation. He did that to make me happy. A small price to pay.
    “Then he told me about a proposed development on an island off the Georgia coast. His interest in the mental health field evolved from a desire to help a favorite cousin stricken with schizophrenia at an early age. Others in his family also succumbed to the illness. He wanted to create a facility that included a hospital for research. He deemed it a worthy project for a government-funded grant. His project would have been perfect for his own foundation to fund, but the conflict of interest would have been obvious. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure nothing in the Gentry-Serrano Foundation’s history stood in the way.
    “Martin used his considerable charm and power to bring investors to the table. While organizing the necessary application to apply for the grant, and without my knowledge, he conducted a private audit of his own foundation ― a detail I didn’t foresee. After all, his name appeared on the masthead; he had every right.” She sighed. “I only wish he’d consulted me.”
    “And what did he find, Mrs. Gentry?”
    “Millions of the foundation’s money funneled from Synthetec into the research laboratory of Dr. Sylvan Crock, a.k.a. Dr. Herbert Scanlon. Pharmaceutical research is expensive, but not that expensive. The accountant turned the papers over to Martin, and he didn’t like the bottom line. Really, my dear. I would have thought you’d have figured it out. It’s always about