My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
Martha turned the paper logbook toward me and pointed a dry finger at the bottom line.
“Someone already paid the fifteen-dollar archive fee for the original parcel deeds,” she said.
My fingers hovered over the paper, where a familiar, looping handwriting filled the signature block.
“Who was the researcher?” I asked.
“A Miss Ashley Carter,” Martha said, sliding her glasses up her nose. “She left about three o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
I stared at the name on the log, written in the bright violet ink Ashley always used.
“Did she make copies of the deeds?” I asked.
“She ordered two certified copies of the original patent deed,” Martha said, tapping the receipt. “She said she was working for the estate.”
“Did she say why she needed the certified copies?”
“She was on her phone the whole time,” Martha said, looking back toward the shelves. “She was arguing with someone about a boundary line and a private valuation.”
I thanked her and walked out into the dry morning heat of Third Street.
The side door of the craftsman house was unlocked when I got back, though I remembered turning the deadbolt before I left.
