Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I took the lock, the cold brass heavy and solid in my palm.
“Thanks, Edwin,” I said.
“He was asking around the lumber yard yesterday about the cost of joist hangers and timber screws,” Edwin said.
I looked down at the padlock, wondering why Cornelius would be pricing structural hardware for a cabin he didn’t own.
“He didn’t mention the lumber yard to me,” I said.
“He wouldn’t,” Edwin said, his voice dropping an octave.
“He also asked the clerk if there was a local notary who worked Saturdays.”
“The notary at the bank is only there Monday through Friday,” I said.
“I know, and so does he now,” Edwin said.
He looked down at his box of spark plugs, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sighed.
“It gets quiet out at my place after five, Arthur, and you don’t want to lose your peace over a man who doesn’t respect your work.”
“I don’t intend to,” I said.
“Just make sure you’re the only one with the key,” Edwin said.
