Chapter 7: What Frank Aldred Found
Frank Aldred was a compact, unhurried man in his early sixties who arrived at Carol's office the next morning carrying a leather briefcase and a large coffee and asking no unnecessary questions.
Carol introduced us.
He shook my hand.
He sat down, opened the briefcase, and put on his reading glasses.
"I've reviewed what Carol sent me last night," he said.
"Before we go further, I want to confirm a few things with you directly.
You are Margaret Whitfield, sole surviving owner of the property at—" he read the address from his notes.
"Yes."
"You did not sign the consent agreement dated fourteen months ago."
"No."
"You did not authorize anyone to sign on your behalf."
"No."
"And you did not know about Blue Shore Property Holdings LLC until two days ago."
"That's correct."
He made a note.
"Good.
Then here's what I can tell you." He laid three pages on the desk.
"The forensic examiner Carol engaged — her name is Dr.
Patricia Sell, she's testified in federal court eleven times — did a preliminary review of the signature pages last night based on the scanned images.
She'll need the originals for a full opinion, but her preliminary view is clear." He tapped the first page.
"The signature is a skilled tracing.
Not freehand forgery.
Someone traced your actual signature from an existing document."
I thought about what was in that filing cabinet.
The original deed.
The mortgage documents.
Papers that bore my signature going back fourteen years.
"Robert told me Megan took the documents from the filing cabinet," I said.
"Last month, while I was out of town."
Frank nodded slowly.
"That would explain the quality.
A tracing from an original legal document would be much cleaner than a freehand copy." He set the page down.
"The second filing—" he pulled out another sheet— "was recorded six weeks ago.
It is a full transfer of property interest.
Not partial.
If it stands, it moves controlling interest in the property to Blue Shore Holdings.
Your interest would be listed as a retained life tenancy."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you could live there until you di*d," Carol said quietly, "but you would no longer own it."
The room was very still.
"Can it be reversed?" I asked.
"If we prove the signatures are forged, yes," Frank said.
"Fraudulently obtained transfers can be voided by the court.
You would petition for a quiet title action.
The county would be notified.
Any sale or further transfer would be blocked during the challenge." He looked at me over his glasses.
"Have you been contacted about any sale?
Any offer?
Anyone approaching you about the property?"
"No."
"There may be a buyer already identified," he said.
"The structure they set up — a holding company, a life tenancy, a property this close to the water — it's not an unusual structure for a quick private sale.
Someone buys the company, the property transfers with it, and by the time the original owner understands what's happened, the transaction is complete."
I looked at Carol.
"How long do we have?" I asked.
"We filed a protective notice with the county this morning," Frank said.
"That creates a cloud on the title.
Nothing can close without a title search flagging it.
For now, the property can't be sold out from under you without a buyer's attorney seeing the dispute." He closed the briefcase.
"But I want those original documents back.
The ones taken from the filing cabinet.
Can you get them?"
"I told Megan to return them by this morning."
"And?"
I had checked the study before I left for Wilmington.
The drawer was still empty.
"She hasn't returned them."
Frank and Carol exchanged a look.
"Then we stop waiting for her to cooperate," Frank said.
He picked up his coffee.
"Carol, let's talk about a preservation order."
I sat back in my chair.
Through the window, the crepe myrtle tree was moving in a light wind.
Somewhere across town, Megan was making a phone call to Dennis Hale.
I thought about the name I had seen on Robert's phone that morning in the kitchen — the notification he had turned away from me so quickly.
I had only seen it for a second.
But I had seen it.
It wasn't Megan.
It wasn't Dennis.
It was a name I hadn't thought about in years.
A name that, now that I turned it over in my mind, connected to something Thomas had told me once — quietly, cautiously — about a business arrangement that hadn't ended well.
I leaned forward.
"Frank," I said.
"Can you look into someone else?
A man named Gerald Marsh."
May you like
He uncapped his pen.
"Tell me everything you know about him."
