Chapter 3: The Forgery and the Fury
The silence on the porch was so profound I could hear the rhythmic thud-thud of the waves crashing a hundred yards away.
“Ruth?” Aunt Patricia choked out, her perfectly manicured hand flying to her throat. “What are you talking about? Ruth is dead.”
“Her physical body, yes,” I said, my voice steady. “But her memory is entirely intact. And she made preparations.”
I lifted the manila envelope and pulled out the first document. It was a formal, notarized cease-and-desist letter.
“The beach house has been transferred into a private, irrevocable trust,” I read aloud, my voice carrying no malice, only the cold, hard weight of the law. “No family member—specifically David, Helen, Patricia, Lauren, and Blake—has occupancy rights without a formal, written invitation from the trustee. Any attempt to enter the property, or damage its fixtures…” I looked pointedly at the locksmith, who was hastily packing his drill and backing toward his truck, “…will be prosecuted as criminal trespassing and breaking and entering.”
My father laughed, but it was a thin, reedy sound devoid of humor. “A trust? That’s absurd. Mom wouldn’t do that. She loved us. She loved having the family here.”
“She loved you,” I corrected him. “You loved her house.”
“This is ridiculous!” Blake exploded, his face twisting with rage. He shoved past his mother, stepping dangerously close to Sheriff Callahan. “This is a power trip! You’ve always been jealous of us, Nora. You manipulated a dying old woman into signing everything over to you because you’re a lonely, bitter spinster!”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply looked at him with a pity that I knew would infuriate him more than anger ever could. “Are you finished, Blake?”
Aunt Patricia suddenly stepped forward, her eyes darting frantically. “Wait. Wait just a minute.” She reached into her oversized designer tote bag and pulled out a folded piece of thick stationary. Her hands were trembling slightly, but her chin was thrust outward in defiance.
“I didn’t want to bring this out,” Patricia announced, projecting her voice so the whole family could hear. “I wanted to keep this amicable. But I found this in Ruth’s desk during Thanksgiving last year. It’s a handwritten codicil. A holographic will.”
She waved the paper. “In her own handwriting, Ruth states that the house is to be divided equally among her children, and that Nora is only to receive a small cash stipend for her… nursing services.”
A murmur rippled through the family. Hope flickered in their greedy eyes. Lauren smirked at me, a nasty, triumphant curve of her lips.
“A handwritten will?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Patricia said, gaining confidence. “And in the state of Maine, if it’s entirely in the testator’s handwriting, it’s perfectly legal. So you can take your little trust and shove it, Nora.”
“May I see that, Patricia?”
The voice didn’t come from me. It came from the driveway.
Stepping out of a sleek black sedan that had pulled up silently behind the rented vans was Mr. Vance, the estate attorney. He was dressed in a razor-sharp charcoal overcoat, carrying a sleek leather briefcase. He walked up the steps, the crowd parting for him as if he were parting the Red Sea.
Patricia hesitated, clutching the paper. “It’s a private family matter, Mr. Vance.”
“Nothing regarding the estate of Ruth Hastings is private from me, madam. I am the executor,” Vance said, holding out a black-gloved hand. “Hand it over. Or I will ask the Sheriff to confiscate it as evidence.”
Reluctantly, Patricia handed him the paper.
Vance didn’t even need to put on his glasses. He stared at the document for exactly four seconds. Then, he looked up at Patricia, his expression one of utter, chilling disgust.
“The ink is blue,” Vance stated flatly.
“So?” Patricia snapped. “Mom liked blue pens.”
“Ruth suffered from severe arthritis in her right hand for the last three years of her life,” Vance explained, his voice echoing off the porch roof. “She couldn’t grip a standard ballpoint pen. She only used heavy, felt-tipped markers. Furthermore, she was right-handed. The slant of this cursive is distinctly left-handed. Like yours, Patricia.”
Patricia’s face drained of all color, leaving her looking like a wax mannequin.
Vance folded the paper and slipped it into his breast pocket. “What you have just handed me is a forged legal document. Presenting it in an attempt to subvert a legal trust crosses the line from a family dispute into federal fraud.”
“Fraud?” Blake shouted, his veins bulging in his neck. “You’re calling my mother a criminal? Give me that paper!”
With a roar of primal anger, Blake lunged forward, throwing his full weight toward the elderly lawyer, his hands grasping for Vance’s coat.
But Blake never made it.
