The Lawyer Found My Name Where Renji Had Left A Blank

Celia's office sat above a sewing shop in Gulfport. I climbed the stairs with my document box against my chest.

"Monday morning," I told her before we sat down.

She looked at the dispatch sheet.

"Then we start with the equipment. The will takes longer."

I paid the $350 and agreed to a $4,000 deposit for her work. It took most of my emergency savings. A pump failure had always seemed the worst use I might have for that money.

Celia copied the agreement, then called our accountant with me beside her.

"Do your records show an ownership change?"

He sent the yearly tax papers and the ledger from the storm repairs. They listed me at fifty-one percent and Emi at forty-nine.

The bank sent its copy of the signed agreement after I approved the release. The lawyer who had prepared it confirmed that both of us had signed in his office.

"You have authority to run the company," Celia said. "That matters today."

"I told Renji to read it."

"Now we'll tell his lawyer. In writing."

She sent notices to Renji, his estate lawyer, Nolan, and the removal contractor. The company disputed any sale. No one had permission to drain tanks, disconnect power, or enter the work areas.

Then she requested the filed will and the papers Renji had submitted with it.

His sworn request called Emi the sole owner of the hatchery.

Under known persons with an interest in its property, he had left a blank.

"You sent him the tax papers?" Celia asked.

"Every March. He helped Emi with her returns."

I found the last email on my phone. Renji had replied, Got both ownership schedules. Thanks, Uncle.

Celia saved it with the full message details.

For the first time since Emi's funeral, I felt something other than grief pressing under my ribs.

It was anger, but it was useful anger. It made me hold the phone steady.

"About the seal," Celia said. "A strange stamp doesn't settle whether a will is valid. We need to examine the signing and the witness claims."

"I want you to know I'm not guessing."

"Then help me prove what you know."

She gave me a plain sheet and asked for a list of company property. I wrote down the intake pump, backup pump, blower, generator, and nursery tanks. Beside each, I put the purchase date from our ledger.

The smallest item was a $46 float switch. The largest was a $39,000 generator. I had cleaned salt off every one of them.

"Don't put your memories on this sheet," Celia said gently. "Put the invoice numbers."

I went back through the list and added them.

Inez gave her the invoice, our photographs, and Ruth's number. Celia asked the stamp shop to preserve its order files. She arranged to inspect Vera's older records through the lawyer holding them.

"And the original will?" I asked.

"We'll ask the court to preserve that too."

By four, Renji's lawyer, Boyd Lister, had called.

Celia put him on speaker with his consent.

"My client has a sale commitment," he said. "Delay may cause substantial loss."

"My client owns the controlling interest," Celia said.

"That document was never brought to my attention."

"You have it now."

"We need time to assess it."

"Your buyer needs to cancel Monday's crew."

There was a pause.

"I'll advise Mr. Morita."

"Please confirm cancellation in writing."

He did not.

That evening, I returned to the hatchery and washed the screens. The spat had set well. Tiny shells clung to the grain of old shell in the trays.

Emi used to lean over them with a flashlight.

"A whole business made of specks," she would say.

I checked the generator fuel and left the tank room lights on.

Renji called at eight.

"You're paying somebody to send letters?" he asked.

"I'm trying to keep you from wasting your retirement."

"Cancel the crew."

"You always make everything about the pumps."

"They're coming to remove the pumps."

His breath hit the phone.

"Nolan paid a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit. There are obligations now."

"Where is that money?"

"In an estate account."

"Which one?"

He ended the call.

I sent Celia a note while the words were fresh. Then I painted the evening tide. My blue line shook at first. I waited and finished it.

At ten, an email arrived from Nolan. He had copied Celia.

His crew would proceed unless a court ordered otherwise, he wrote. Renji had guaranteed clear title to every item.

Attached was a signed delivery order with a handwritten change.

The advance crew had been moved to five on Monday morning.