Chapter 3 - What My Grandmother Saw
At the hospital, a physician told me I had a dislocated shoulder, two cracked ribs, a mild concussion, and bruising that would take weeks to fade.
I had escaped a fatal fall by inches and a predator encounter by circumstances nobody should ever depend on.
When I heard the word fortunate, I thought of the fingers that had pressed between my shoulder blades.
It was difficult to feel fortunate while remembering how deliberately Grant had chosen the spot.
A nurse helped me call my commanding officer, who arranged the appropriate military support while local police handled the civilian investigation.
I also asked her to contact a lawyer named Harriet Sloan.
Harriet had represented my grandmother in estate matters for more than a decade.
She was blunt, patient, and nearly impossible to intimidate.
When Ruth died, Harriet had warned me against signing anything Grant put in front of me without independent review.
I had assumed she was being overly cautious.
Now I understood that caution could be an expression of love.
Harriet arrived that evening wearing an old raincoat over a perfectly pressed blouse.
She placed her briefcase beside my hospital bed and studied my injured shoulder before speaking.
"You are going to tell me only what you remember clearly," she said.
"No filling gaps to make a story sound complete."
I gave her the timeline from breakfast to the fall.
She wrote notes without interrupting.
When I described Grant reaching for the emergency-release lever, she stopped.
"Did you actually see him touch it?"
"I saw him on the security monitor with his hand on it."
"Good distinction."
She underlined something.
"We'll let the footage establish what moved and when."
Then she leaned closer.
"Evelyn, your grandmother came to see me eleven days before she died."
I stared at her.
Ruth had been tired and frequently short of breath in those final weeks.
I believed she had spent almost every afternoon resting at home.
"Why didn't she tell me?"
"She asked me not to until I had confirmed a few things."
Harriet opened a folder but did not hand it over immediately.
"Grant had contacted a local property broker about the shoreline parcels behind Ruth's home."
"Those parcels aren't mine."
"Not directly," Harriet said.
"But the lake house gives the owner a controlling vote in a small private access association."
I remembered the association as a sleepy group of neighbors who maintained the dock and gravel road.
We paid modest annual dues and argued occasionally about weeds in the swimming area.
Nothing about it seemed worth murdering someone over.
Harriet continued.
"The association controls an easement along the northern water access."
"An easement for what?"
"Maintenance and environmental preservation, as Ruth understood it."
She took out a map.
"A developer has been trying to acquire a larger corridor through the same area."
A red line crossed the shoreline and curved inland toward several industrial parcels.
I recognized the name printed near the top.
Northstar Development Partners.
Grant had mentioned Northstar at dinner and said he was advising the company on financing.
At the time, I had thought it was another short-lived consulting assignment.
"What does this have to do with my inheritance?"
"Your grandmother believed someone wanted the association's original deed records changed."
"Changed how?"
"To make a private development corridor appear already authorized."
I looked at the map again.
"They would need more than my signature."
"Yes," Harriet said.
"That's why the other documents matter."
She produced a copy of a letter that Ruth had received three weeks before her death.
It claimed that Ruth had approved a transfer of her association voting rights to Grant through a special family arrangement.
The document carried a signature that looked almost correct.
But the loop in the R was wrong, and the final stroke of Bell was unusually straight.
I had seen Ruth sign birthday cards for decades.
I knew it was not her handwriting.
"She didn't sign that."
"She told me the same thing."
Harriet's jaw tightened.
"Someone also attempted to record a power of attorney purportedly signed by you."
I felt a fresh wave of nausea.
"I never gave Grant power of attorney."
"I know."
"Then how did they get a signature?"
"That is one of the questions the investigators will need to answer."
Harriet showed me another page.
It was a photograph of a notary's seal, partially obscured by a coffee stain.
The printed name was Martin Keene.
I had never heard of him.
"Your grandmother asked me to find out whether this notary was legitimate," Harriet said.
"Before we could finish, she became very ill."
I remembered Grant insisting that Ruth's estate had to be settled quickly.
He had described the lake house as a financial burden.
He had offered to arrange a buyer, cover the paperwork, and save me the trouble of dealing with repairs.
I had refused because I was not ready to sell the place where she taught me to swim.
He had grown colder afterward.
"He asked about my will," I whispered.
"Twice."
Harriet did not respond immediately.
She seemed to be choosing her next words with care.
"An inherited asset is not automatically your husband's property just because you're married."
"I know."
"But a forged document can still cause enormous damage before it is challenged."
She slid a second folder toward me.
"Ruth created a trust arrangement before her death."
I blinked.
"A trust?"
"It protects the house, rental properties, and the documents connected with the lake association."
"Why wasn't Grant told?"
"Because Ruth instructed me to discuss it privately with you after her funeral."
I remembered the day after the service.
Grant had insisted we leave for a weekend trip, then spent most of it answering calls from Paige.
Harriet had tried to reach me twice, and I had postponed the meeting.
My stomach sank.
"What happens if I die?"
Harriet looked me directly in the eyes.
"The trust does not pass into Grant's control."
I let the words settle.
If Grant had planned my death to obtain the estate, he might have been operating from a disastrously false assumption.
But an even worse thought followed.
He could still be trying to obtain the lake rights by fraud, regardless of what happened to me.
Harriet turned one final page.
There was a photograph of Grant entering a lakeside records office with Paige Dalton.
The date was four days before Ruth died.
"Who took this?" I asked.
"Your grandmother's neighbor," Harriet replied.
"Teresa Voss."
I recognized the name from the ambulance.
May you like
Harriet's face hardened.
"Teresa also recorded what Grant said when he believed nobody else was listening."
