The Will's Witness Brought Her Check Stub To My Kitchen

I let Lena into the kitchen and called Mara. I put the phone on speaker after telling them both.

"Don't give me a practiced version," Mara said. "Tell me what happened, starting with the date Curtis contacted you."

Lena pressed the grocery bag flat. Inside were a check stub, a letter, and the envelope they had arrived in.

Curtis had called two days after Elinor died.

"He said there was a signing sheet missing from her old files," Lena said. "He said I was only confirming what she wanted."

"Had you watched her sign a will?"

"No."

"Had she told you that this was her will?"

"No. I knew her. I knew she wanted him to have the business someday. He said it was a simple office repair."

I looked at the letter. It told Lena to sign beside Owen's name and use the printed date. The attached page said they had watched Elinor sign on March twelfth of the previous year.

Curtis had paid Lena $600 for what the check stub called records help.

"You read that page?" Mara asked.

Lena stared at the bag.

"Yes. I read it."

She had been willing to help my brother make a dead woman's wishes tidy. She had not asked who would be pushed out by that tidy page.

"I need a lawyer, don't I?" she asked.

"You should get your own," Mara said. "And preserve everything. Cecily, don't write on any of it."

Lena left the documents for copying with her consent. The next day, through her lawyer, she gave a sworn account and turned over the originals. Her $600 went into a separate account while the matter was reviewed.

Owen gave his account after he received formal requests for records. He had signed at Curtis's office after the funeral. Like Lena, he had never witnessed Elinor sign anything that day in March.

Neither statement made the quarry deed more valid. It was already recorded. They did make Curtis's claim to speak for our aunt much harder to sell.

At the trust hearing the next week, he wore a dark suit and brought a new lawyer. I wore the brown shoes I used for cemetery surveys. My hands shook, so I folded them over my repair log.

Mara laid out the trust, its schedule, the assignment of the carvings, and the certified deed. Dalia testified that she had accepted the trustee role.

Curtis's lawyer said the will showed Elinor's later wishes.

The judge asked him to identify a deed returning the quarry to her individual name.

He could not.

"The will dispute belongs in the estate proceeding," the judge said. "Today I am deciding whether this property needs protection while the trust claims are heard."

Then Mara showed the crusher dispatch sheet and the account payment.

Curtis leaned toward his lawyer. The man moved his chair an inch away so he could stand.

The temporary order became an injunction. Dalia kept control of the site pending a final ruling. Curtis had to supply his quarry records and stay out of the shed unless she gave written consent. The judge set deadlines for the accounting and further evidence.

Outside, Curtis caught up with me beside a stone wall.

"You've tied up my living."

"You still have your trucks."

"I have payments on those trucks."

"Then you should have paid the yard rent."

His face went still.

"You think every little scrap makes you important."

I held the log against my ribs.

"The scraps have dates."

Mara stepped beside me, and he walked away.

That afternoon, she arranged for a document examiner to inspect the original questioned will held by the court. It would cost $1,850. Dalia approved payment from trust funds only for the portion of the work protecting trust claims; the estate work was billed separately.

"Separate bills," she told me. "No easy holes for him to point at later."

I returned to the shed and measured the bare space marked seventeen. Its base had left two clean lines in the dust.

My notes held its height, width, and a photograph of the left hand. The little finger had an old chip shaped like a crescent.

I sent that image to the accountant searching Curtis's sales records.

Near closing time, he forwarded an email from a stone yard in Jasper. Attached was an invoice for $7,400 and a photograph.

A woman held a folded apron. Her chipped little finger faced the camera.

The buyer's message ended, We're scheduled to saw this into hearth slabs Tuesday. Does your client have a claim?