Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
The side door to the conference room opened, and a woman in a gray business suit walked in.
It was the county notary, Brenda Davis. She carried a thick, blue-bound ledger under her arm.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Davis,” Vance said, gesturing to the empty chair by the window.
Benson stood up, his hand hovering over his watch. “This is highly irregular. This is a private office.”
“Sit down, Gerald,” his lawyer, a bald man named Miller, said from the corner of the room.
Miller had not spoken until now, but his eyes were fixed on the blue ledger.
“Ms. Davis,” Vance said, turning to the window. “Did you notarize Maria’s signature on the document dated August twelfth?”
The notary placed her blue ledger on the small side table. “I did not.”
“Your stamp and signature are on the recorded deed,” Vance said.
“That is my stamp, but it was not applied to that document on that date,” she said.
She flipped the blue ledger open to a page marked with a yellow sticky note.
