When 68-Year-Old Hollywood Costume Icon Eleanor Delacroix Is Excluded From a $150,000 Luxury Cruise She Paid For, She Silently Freezes Her Leech Sibling’s Funds and Sells Her $8M Malibu Estate
The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing a hollow victory for Julian and Beatrice. I stood in the quiet of my Malibu living room, the Pacific sun still streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting streaks of gold across the antique Persian rug.
It looked peaceful. I wasn’t.
“I’ll have the house to myself for the next two weeks,” I murmured, my voice steady. It was a performance, even to myself.
I picked up the phone, my fingers flying across the keypad to Arthur Pendelton’s number. My veteran entertainment real estate attorney answered on the second ring, his voice a calm counterpoint to the turmoil churning inside me.
“Arthur, it’s Eleanor,” I said, keeping my tone light, almost casual. “Could you look into something for me? A quick audit of my properties, perhaps?”
He chuckled softly. “Eleanor, you just finalized that new trust last year. Everything’s in perfect order.”
“Humor me,” I insisted. “Just a routine check. Especially anything related to the Malibu estate. I had a… peculiar conversation with Julian this morning.”
I didn’t elaborate. Arthur knew Julian well enough to pick up on the undertone. He agreed to start the paperwork.
Hours later, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues that usually brought me joy. Tonight, they only felt like a warning.
My phone vibrated. It was Arthur.
“Eleanor, I’ve got something you need to see,” he said, his voice stripped of all humor. “It’s about the Malibu house. The city’s planning department sent me some documents.”
My stomach tightened. “What kind of documents?”
“Architectural plans,” he replied. “Submitted by… Beatrice. And they’re not for a renovation. They’re for a partial demolition. Taking out the entire west wing, down to the foundation.”
I stared at the darkening ocean, the waves crashing rhythmically, oblivious. The west wing. That was my studio, my late husband’s office, filled with memories.
“Demolition?” I whispered, the word tasting like ash. “That’s impossible. I never approved anything like that.”
“It gets worse,” Arthur said, his voice grim. “There’s a property transfer deed attached. Signed with your name. Conveying a fifty percent interest in the estate to Julian and Beatrice Delacroix.”
My hand instinctively clutched the phone. The air left my lungs in a silent gasp. A forged deed. Submitted alongside demolition plans.
“It’s dated six months ago,” Arthur added, as if striking another blow. “And it looks… legitimate. On paper, at least. But it’s clearly not your signature, is it, Eleanor?”
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t need to. The chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the cool evening air.
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