I read Pam’s message twice.
If you found Henry’s letter, do not go to Cedar Grove.
Alan leaned over my shoulder.
“What did she say?”
I turned the phone toward him.
His mouth tightened.
Mr. Creighton read it from across the conference table and immediately said, “You are not going there alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You should not go at all until we understand why she sent that.”
I looked at him.
“If Pam wanted me to stay away because the place is dangerous, she could have said it was dangerous.”
“That is an assumption.”
“It’s an educated one.”
“She may also be trying to prevent you from removing records from property owned by someone else.”
“That sounds like Dale.”
“It sounds like an attorney trying to keep his client from creating a second problem while solving the first.”
I almost smiled.
“Am I your client?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’re giving away expensive advice.”
His expression remained serious.
“I knew your grandfather for thirty-one years. Consider this one courtesy.”
The number struck me.
Thirty-one years.
Longer than some marriages.
Long enough for Mr. Creighton to have watched our family become whatever it was now.
“Who owns Cedar Grove?” I asked.
He checked the property file.
“Harper Property Solutions.”
“Dale’s company.”
“Yes.”
“And the workshop?”
“I don’t know whether it is separately described.”
Alan was already searching on his phone.
“There’s an outbuilding behind the rental. Small metal shop. Robert used it when he owned the property before Dale.”
I looked at him.
“Uncle Robert owned Cedar Grove?”
“Years ago.”
That mattered.
“When?”
“Before he got sick.”
“Did Dale inherit it?”
“I think so.”
Mr. Creighton turned a page.
“The chain of title shows Robert Harper transferred the property to Harper Property Solutions nine months before his death.”
I looked at Alan.
“You didn’t know?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Was that normal?”
“Robert was sick. Dale was helping him.”
There was that word again.
Helping.
It seemed to have become a family synonym for gaining access.
Mr. Creighton continued reading.
“The transfer price listed here is nominal.”
“How nominal?”
“Ten dollars and other consideration.”
I laughed without humor.
“So Dale’s company got the property before Robert died, and years later Grandpa’s money paid to renovate it.”
“That appears consistent with the records we have.”
“Then whatever Grandpa meant by Robert’s storage box could still be there.”
“Possibly.”
I looked at Pam’s message again.
If you found Henry’s letter, do not go to Cedar Grove.
The timing bothered me.
“How does Pam know I found Grandpa’s letter?”
Alan looked up.
“She saw the blue ledger.”
“That doesn’t tell her Grandpa left something with Mr. Creighton.”
Mr. Creighton’s expression changed.
“You’re right.”
“Did you tell anyone I had the letter?”
“No.”
“Your receptionist?”
“She knew I had an envelope for you, but she would have no reason to contact Pam.”
“Dale knew you were trying to reach me?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know Grandpa left a letter?”
“I never told him.”
Alan sat back.
“Then Pam guessed.”
“From what?”
No one answered.
I looked at Grandpa’s letter.
He had written that if everything went wrong, the attorney was to put it directly into my hands.
Someone else had known enough to worry about that.
I typed a reply to Pam.
Why?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then stopped.
Appeared again.
Her answer came.
Because Dale will know where you are going.
I read it aloud.
Alan stood.
“That sounds like a warning.”
“Or bait.”
Mr. Creighton frowned.
“Either way, you do not confront Dale at that property.”
“I’m not going to confront him.”
“What are you going to do?”
I folded Grandpa’s letter and returned it to the envelope.
“Find out whether the workshop still exists.”
“That can be done without entering it.”
“I agree.”
Alan looked at me.
“I’ll drive.”
Mr. Creighton opened his mouth.
I raised a hand.
“We are going to look from a public road.”
He stared at me.
“That is substantially less foolish.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not praise.”
I slipped the blue ledger into my bag.
Mr. Creighton stood.
“Leave that here.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Because Henry explicitly directed that it come to me.”
That was true.
I hated being separated from it.
He saw that.
“I will copy every page and give you a receipt.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
We waited while his assistant scanned the ledger.
Mr. Creighton signed a simple acknowledgment stating that he had received it directly from me, described its condition, and noted the missing pages.
I photographed the receipt.
Then I photographed the ledger once more before letting it leave the room.
I had spent too long believing memory was enough.
It wasn’t.
Memory could be challenged.
Paper could be hidden.
Records could be cut apart.
From now on, I wanted copies.
Alan and I left twenty minutes later.
We took his truck because my car had begun making a grinding sound when I braked.
Of all the ridiculous things to think about while uncovering a decade of family deception, I was worried about brake pads.
That was life, I supposed.
Secrets did not stop ordinary expenses.
Cedar Grove was thirteen minutes from Mr. Creighton’s office.
Alan drove slowly.
“You don’t have to come,” I said.
He kept his eyes on the road.
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ve already told me what you knew.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What else?”
“I mean I’ve spent eleven years not coming when I should have.”
I looked out the window.
That was not forgiveness.
It was not nothing either.
The neighborhood around Cedar Grove consisted of modest houses on long lots with chain-link fences and mature trees.
Number 214 had fresh siding, black shutters, and a newer roof.
The renovation looked good.
Of course it did.
Seventy-six thousand dollars could make a house look very good.
A small sedan sat in the driveway.
“Tenant,” Alan said.
Behind the house, visible from the side street, stood a low metal workshop with a sloped roof.
My heart sped up.
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
The building was maybe twenty by thirty feet.
One window.
One roll-up door.
One ordinary side door.
The side door stood open.
Alan slowed.
“Don’t stop.”
He kept moving.
Through the open doorway I saw shelving.
A workbench.
Cardboard boxes.
And a man.
Only his back.
Dark jacket.
Broad shoulders.
He turned just enough for me to recognize him.
Dale.
“Keep driving.”
Alan did.
Neither of us spoke until we were two blocks away.
Then he pulled over.
My phone rang.
Pam.
I answered.
“What?”
Her breathing was fast.
“Where are you?”
“You know where.”
“I told you not to go there.”
“Dale is already inside the workshop.”
Silence.
Then, “Leave.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s cleaning it out.”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know?”
“I was with him.”
“Where are you now?”
Another silence.
“Pam.”
“At home.”
“You left him there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She sounded close to tears.
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
Alan leaned closer to hear.
I put the call on speaker.
“Do what?”
Pam’s breath shook.
“Pretend I don’t know what he’s doing.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know who has access to his accounts.”
I frowned.
“What accounts?”
“Phone. Email. Everything.”
I looked at Alan.
He looked equally confused.
Pam continued.
“He tracks the family plan. He can see call history.”
“That’s not the same as listening.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
She whispered, “Robert’s box is real.”
I gripped the phone.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“What do you know?”
“Papers. Copies. An insurance file.”
My heart kicked.
“Robert’s policy?”
“Yes.”
“Was I beneficiary?”
“I don’t know.”
“Grandpa wrote that I was originally.”
Pam began crying.
Not loudly.
She tried to hide it.
“I saw your name.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How many years?”
“After Robert died.”
I looked through the truck windshield.
“Who else saw it?”
“Dale.”
Of course.
“What happened?”
“He said it had been superseded.”
“By what?”
“A later form.”
“Who was beneficiary on that?”
“Dale.”
Alan swore softly.
“Did you see the later form?”
“Yes.”
“Did the signature look like Robert’s?”
Pam stopped crying.
The silence told me more than words.
“Pam.”
“I didn’t know then.”
“What didn’t you know?”
“That Robert’s hand wasn’t working properly when it was supposedly signed.”
Alan looked at me.
Robert had suffered nerve damage during his illness.
I remembered him eating with his left hand at Thanksgiving because his right hand trembled.
“When was the beneficiary changed?”
“Three months before he died.”
Exactly what the missing page impression had shown.
“Who submitted it?”
“Dale said Robert did.”
“But?”
Pam’s voice dropped.
“I found a fax confirmation in Dale’s office years later.”
My mouth went dry.
“Sent from where?”
“Harper Property Solutions.”
Alan shut his eyes.
“What did you do with it?”
“Nothing.”
The word broke.
“I did nothing.”
I understood that kind of failure better than I wanted to.
Still, understanding was not absolution.
“Is the fax confirmation in the workshop?”
“I made a copy.”
“Where?”
“In Robert’s box.”
“Then Dale is there looking for it.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
“Because he knows Grandpa documented the policy.”
“Why would Grandpa care about Robert’s insurance?”
Pam hesitated.
“I think Robert told him.”
“Told him what?”
“That Nancy was supposed to get part of it.”
My chest tightened.
“Why me?”
“I don’t know.”
Alan suddenly spoke.
“I might.”
We both looked at him.
Pam heard.
“What?”
Alan stared straight ahead.
“Robert was Nancy’s godfather.”
I had forgotten.
Not completely.
It had simply become one of those childhood facts with no modern use.
Uncle Robert had been my father’s younger brother.
My father died when I was twelve.
Robert had stepped into some of the empty places after that.
He took me to buy my first used car.
He taught me how to change a tire.
He gave me away at my wedding.
When I divorced, he was already sick.
“Why would Dale care if Robert left me insurance?”
“Because he thought all of Robert’s estate should come to him.”
“But a policy isn’t necessarily part of the estate.”
Mr. Creighton’s careful legal voice echoed in my head.
Registration matters.
Beneficiary matters.
Paper matters.
Pam whispered, “There’s more.”
I closed my eyes.
There was always more.
“What?”
“Robert didn’t just leave you money.”
“What else?”
“I think he left you something in the workshop.”
Alan looked toward the rearview mirror.
“What?”
“A metal case.”
“Where?”
“Under the floor.”
My pulse increased.
“Dale knows?”
“He knows there was a compartment. He never found the case.”
“Then why is he there now?”
“Because Grandpa’s letter must have given you enough to find it.”
I looked at the open workshop door in my mind.
Dale carrying boxes.
The man who had told me to burn seventeen bonds was now standing over a place his father had hidden something intended for me.
I opened the door of Alan’s truck.
He grabbed my sleeve.
“No.”
“I’m not going inside.”
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
Pam inhaled sharply over the phone.
“Nancy—”
“Dale is removing things from a property he owns. I know that part isn’t a crime.”
“Then why call?”
“Because if the box contains records connected to disputed estate property or a questionable insurance change, I want somebody else to see what happens next.”
Alan slowly released my sleeve.
Pam was silent.
Then she said, “There’s another way in.”
I froze.
“To the workshop?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Back wall. Behind the old lumber rack.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Her answer came quietly.
“Because that’s where Robert hid the compartment.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: We Did Not Break Into the Workshop, but Dale Carried Out One Box That Proved Grandpa Had Been Right About the Missing Records
Three Hundred Dollars for Grandpa’s Basement Sounded Like Charity Until Dale Made Sure I Understood Exactly What I Was Allowed to Touch
Part 9 of 44
