Chapter 7 - The Family Legacy
The name sounded respectable.
Whitmore Family Legacy Trust.
If you saw it on paper, you might imagine generations sitting around a lawyer’s table discussing responsible estate planning.
In reality, I had never heard of it.
Sarah spent the next morning tracing the filing.
The trust itself had been created privately.
The county record was merely attached to an unfinished property transaction.
Someone had started the process of moving my house into that trust.
They simply had not completed it.
Yet.
The paperwork listed my consent.
My date of birth.
My Social Security number.
My property tax identification number.
Information that had been inside the missing metal box.
“This was planned before Christmas.”
I said.
Sarah nodded.
“Months before.”
“Who prepared it?”
“North Pine Documentation Services.”
Margaret.
I felt something inside me harden.
The woman had sat at my Christmas table.
She had eaten food I purchased and cooked.
She had carried a handbag bought with money taken from me.
And all the while, her company had been preparing documents connected to my home.
Julian arrived at Sarah’s office around noon.
He read the trust papers silently.
Then he stood and walked to the window.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
I said.
He turned toward me, almost relieved.
Then I finished.
“That does not make you innocent.”
His shoulders dropped.
“You gave Brooke access.”
“I know.”
“You gave her my identification.”
“I know.”
“You let her speak as if my home already belonged to you.”
“I know.”
“You watched her remove my photographs.”
“I know.”
“You watched her put your father’s chair in the garage.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Why?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because keeping Brooke happy was easier than disagreeing with her.”
I looked at my son for a long time.
“And keeping Brooke happy was easier because I paid the price.”
He had no defense.
Sarah asked him about the mobile notary.
Julian remembered the name.
Melissa Crane.
We found her within an hour.
She denied notarizing anything for me.
“I was hired for an appointment at that address.”
she said.
“But when I arrived, Mrs. Whitmore supposedly had a migraine and would not come downstairs.”
“Who spoke with you?”
Sarah asked.
“A younger woman.”
“Brooke?”
Julian showed her a photograph.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted me to notarize documents without seeing the signer.”
Melissa shook her head.
“I refused.”
“Did anyone else come afterward?”
“I don’t know.”
Sarah thanked her.
Before we disconnected, Melissa added,
“The younger woman was very angry.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yes.”
“She told someone in the hallway that they would find somebody less difficult.”
Someone less difficult.
That afternoon, Sarah located the notarization attached to the trust documents.
The notary name belonged to a man in Rhode Island.
He had died fourteen months before the document was supposedly signed.
For the first time, Sarah used the word I had been avoiding.
“Fraud.”
Julian sat very still.
I looked at my son.
Christmas had begun with a handbag.
May you like
Now we were staring at a forged notarization involving my home.
And I had the terrible feeling we still had not reached the bottom.
