‘What’s that?’
‘Whether anyone has tried to claim it without telling me.’
There was a pause.
‘What makes you ask?’
I told him about Paul’s new lock, the unsolicited guests, the conversation at Easter, and Bridget’s voicemail.
Thomas didn’t dismiss my concerns.
‘Come to my office tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I’ll review the title records first.’
I arrived at ten the next morning carrying Arthur’s original house plans and the folder containing my purchase documents.
Thomas had already printed the county records.
He placed them between us.
‘Dorothy, when was the last time you signed anything relating to the lake house?’
‘At closing, unless you count the insurance renewal.’
‘Have you given Bridget or Paul a power of attorney?’
‘Never.’
He adjusted his glasses.
‘Then we need to discuss something concerning.’
A document had been submitted to the county recording office several months earlier.
It purported to transfer the lake property from me to Bridget and Paul for nominal consideration.
The signature at the bottom resembled mine.
But it wasn’t mine.
I stared at the page.
The handwriting had the careful loops of someone trying to imitate an old woman’s signature from a Christmas card.
Arthur would have recognized the difference immediately.
He always said my handwriting leaned forward like I was trying to finish a shift before somebody called for help.
This signature leaned backward.
‘Has it been accepted?’ I asked.
‘The document was recorded,’ Thomas explained, ‘but recording doesn’t establish that a forged transfer is valid.
We need to challenge it immediately and protect the property from any further transactions.’
He had already contacted a title specialist, who recommended filing a civil action to establish ownership and recording notice of the dispute.
Thomas also wanted me to make a formal report about the suspected forgery.
I studied the witness information.
There was a name I recognized.
Margaret Whitaker.
Paul’s mother.
‘His mother witnessed this?’
‘Her name appears here,’ Thomas said.
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean she knew what she was witnessing.
We need evidence.’
I leaned back in my chair.
Margaret was a retired accountant who prided herself on never signing a document without reading it.
She sent birthday cards with carefully written checks and kept receipts in alphabetized envelopes.
I could hardly imagine her carelessly witnessing a forged deed.
But I also knew she believed her son incapable of dishonesty.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked.
‘First, we protect your legal interests.
Then we investigate.
And Dorothy, until we understand who was involved, don’t confront them directly.’
For the next week, Thomas worked with the title specialist while I reviewed five years of family messages and property expenses.
The more I examined, the more uncomfortable I became.
I found a message from Bridget asking for a copy of the original deed, supposedly because Paul’s insurance agent needed it.
I found an email from Paul requesting an updated valuation for the property.
I found evidence that he had advertised the house as available for private executive retreats, although I had never approved any commercial rentals.
He had collected deposits from at least two acquaintances for weekends I thought he was hosting friends.
I had been paying the electricity, maintenance, taxes, and insurance while he quietly treated the property as a business opportunity.
And my daughter had never mentioned a
