Evelyn Mercer gave me a cup of coffee I barely touched.
Then she turned Grandma's letter toward the light and pointed to a name near the bottom.
Margaret Bell.
I remembered her immediately.
Margaret had managed the books for Pelican Row Cottages long before my father started helping with the business.
She was a quiet woman who wore reading glasses on a chain and kept every receipt in a separate folder.
When I was a child, she gave me peppermint candies while Grandma worked.
"Margaret retired," I said.
Evelyn shook her head.
"She was dismissed."
"By my father?"
"According to what Lenora told me, yes."
I looked at Grandma's letter again.
"Why would Dad fire someone who had worked there for so long?"
"That's one of the questions we need answered."
Evelyn spread several financial statements across her desk.
She explained that Grandma had been worried about transfers between the business operating accounts and accounts controlled by my father.
Some payments were described as management expenses.
Others appeared to be loans.
A few had no clear explanation.
"Does this prove he took money?" I asked.
"Not by itself."
She pointed to a bank entry.
"We need to know who authorized this transfer and what the money was used for."
"Could Grandma have approved it?"
"Possibly. That's why we investigate before accusing anyone."
I studied the page.
A payment of nearly forty thousand dollars had been made during the period when Grandma was receiving medical treatment.
Another transfer followed two weeks later.
Dad had always insisted that the cottages were barely profitable.
Whenever Grandma discussed improvements, he complained about costs.
Now I wondered how much money had actually been available.
Evelyn explained that Grandma had been considering a change in how the properties were held.
She had asked questions about trusts, business interests, and preventing unauthorized transfers.
But the documents in the container were not enough to establish the estate's final ownership.
"We also need to find any executed estate documents," Evelyn said.
"Could they be missing?"
"Yes."
"Could my father have them?"
"We don't know."
I hated those three words.
I wanted certainty.
I wanted someone to point at the records and say exactly what had happened.
Instead, Evelyn handed me a notepad.
"Write down everything you remember about your grandmother's plans."
I sat at her conference table for nearly an hour.
I wrote about the cottage repairs.
The hurricane preparations.
Grandma's complaints about Dad's spending.
The time he proposed selling Cottage Seven to a developer and Grandma refused.
I remembered that argument clearly.
It happened two summers earlier.
Dad had arrived with a glossy brochure showing a luxury waterfront development.
He said the land was worth more than the buildings.
Grandma looked at the brochure, then placed it beneath a wobbly table leg.
"That's the most useful thing you've brought me today," she told him.
I had laughed.
Dad hadn't.
Later, he accused Grandma of refusing to make sensible financial decisions.
She responded by asking whether sensible decisions always required other people to surrender what they owned.
I wrote down every word I could remember.
Evelyn read my notes.
"Your grandmother had strong opinions."
"Very."
"Strong opinions aren't legal documents. But they can help us understand what she intended."
That afternoon, I went looking for Margaret Bell.
Her old house stood on a quiet street lined with flowering trees.
A wind chime hung beside the front door.
Margaret answered after the second knock.
She looked older than I remembered, but the reading glasses were still hanging from a chain around her neck.
"Claire?"
"Hello, Margaret."
Her expression softened.
"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry about Lenora."
I felt tears rising.
"Thank you."
She invited me inside.
Her kitchen smelled of cinnamon.
A little radio played softly on the counter.
For several minutes, we spoke about Grandma.
Margaret remembered how Lenora inspected every cottage after storms, even when her knees hurt.
She remembered the blue towel.
She remembered Grandma arguing with contractors who tried to charge extra because she was an elderly woman.
Then I asked why Margaret had left the business.
Her smile faded.
"Your father told me my services were no longer required."
"Why?"
"Because I refused to approve an expense report without supporting records."
I leaned forward.
"What expense report?"
Margaret stood and fetched a folder from a cabinet.
Inside were copies of emails and account statements.
She placed them on the table.
"Your father began using a management company to charge the cottages administrative fees," she explained.
"What company?"
"Vale Coastal Management."
I recognized the name from Grandma's records.
"Who owned it?"
"Your father."
I looked at her.
"He was paying himself?"
"His company was receiving payments. Whether every payment was legitimate is a question for an accountant and the court."
Margaret showed me invoices for consulting services, maintenance coordination, and financial oversight.
Some might have been legitimate.
Others seemed difficult to explain.
One invoice charged for emergency storm repairs during a month when no storm had damaged the cottages.
Another listed services performed at Cottage Four while that building was closed for renovations.
Margaret had requested receipts.
My father refused.
Then Grandma asked to review the accounts.
Within days, Margaret received a dismissal letter.
"Why didn't you tell Grandma everything?" I asked.
"I tried."
"What happened?"
"Your father began attending every meeting."
Margaret lowered her voice.
"He also told me Lenora was becoming confused."
I remembered Dad saying something similar the night I returned home.
"Was she?"
Margaret looked offended.
"She sometimes misplaced her glasses. She sometimes forgot why she'd entered a room. She was eighty-four, Claire, not incapable of understanding her own business."
I nodded.
"I know."
Margaret slid another paper toward me.
"This is the last report I prepared before I was dismissed."
It listed the seven cottages and their operating performance.
The figures were stronger than Dad had suggested.
I studied the total.
"Why would he tell Grandma the business was struggling?"
Margaret looked down.
"You'll have to ask him."
Before I left, she told me something that made me stop in the doorway.
"Your grandmother came here after I was fired."
"When?"
"About four months before she died."
"What did she want?"
"She wanted copies of everything I still had."
"Did you give them to her?"
"Yes."
Margaret hesitated.
"She also told me she was changing her estate arrangements."
I turned around.
"Did she say how?"
"No. She said she was making sure her work went to someone who would protect it."
That evening, Evelyn reviewed Margaret's records.
She was interested, but cautious.
"These documents give us grounds to ask for a formal accounting," she said.
"Can we stop the sale?"
"We can request temporary relief while ownership and estate administration are disputed."
"Will the judge grant it?"
"I can't promise that."
I looked toward the window.
Outside, cars moved through the evening traffic.
People were going home.
Buying groceries.
Making dinner.
Living ordinary lives.
My grandmother was gone, and I was trying to stop my parents from selling the buildings she had spent decades restoring.
Evelyn made several telephone calls.
Then she handed me a list of documents to gather.
"Claire, I need you to be prepared for something."
"What?"
"Your father may claim you are contesting the estate for money."
"He already has."
"He may also use your absence during Lenora's illness against you."
I swallowed.
"I was working."
"I know. We can document that."
"Does that matter?"
"It matters if they make claims that are factually wrong."
She looked directly at me.
"But don't turn this into an argument about who loved your grandmother more. Keep the evidence separate from the grief."
I thought of Grandma's funeral.
The empty flowerpots.
The missing brass heron.
My mother's pearl earrings.
"I'll try."
The following morning, Dad appeared outside my motel.
He was standing beside his car when I returned from breakfast.
"Claire."
I stopped.
"How did you find me?"
"This is a small town."
He glanced toward my room.
"We need to talk."
"About Grandma?"
"About what you're doing."
I folded my arms.
"I'm asking questions."
"You're damaging this family."
"Why did you tell the court I was estranged?"
He looked away.
"You weren't here."
"That doesn't mean I didn't love her."
"Love isn't the same as responsibility."
I stared at him.
"Did Grandma ask for me before she died?"
He didn't answer.
"Dad."
His jaw tightened.
"Your grandmother became difficult near the end."
"Did she ask for me?"
"She asked about many things."
"That's not what I asked."
He rubbed his forehead.
Then he said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"You've always made everything about your feelings."
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I finally understood why every conversation with him left me feeling as though the truth had been moved somewhere just beyond reach.
"I'm going to court," I said.
His eyes narrowed.
"You're making a mistake."
"Then you can explain that to the judge."
He stepped closer.
"You think an attorney can undo decades of family responsibility?"
"No," I answered. "But maybe she can explain what happened to Grandma's money."
His face changed.
Only for a second.
Then he opened his car door.
"Be very careful, Claire."
He drove away without another word.
That afternoon, Evelyn filed objections to his petition and requested an accounting of the estate and relevant business transactions.
She also asked the court to prevent the disputed properties from being transferred until the ownership questions were resolved.
Then Margaret called.
Her voice sounded strained.
"I remembered something," she said.
"What?"
"Your grandmother asked me to witness a meeting with another lawyer several months ago."
I gripped the phone.
"Another lawyer?"
"Yes. Someone who helped her with the cottages years before your father became involved."
"Do you remember the name?"
Margaret paused.
"Daniel Whitcomb."
I wrote it down.
Then she added:
"Claire, your father knew about that meeting. I saw him outside the office afterward."
I called Evelyn immediately.
She went silent when I told her the name.
"Daniel Whitcomb?" she repeated.
"Yes."
"Are you certain?"
"Margaret is."
Evelyn took a slow breath.
"Claire, Daniel retired last year."
"Can we contact him?"
"Yes."
"Why does he matter?"
"Because he was the attorney who prepared your grandmother's original property trust."
I sat down on the edge of the motel bed.
"What trust?"
Evelyn paused.
"The one your father insists never existed."
END PART 2
