by Jacquie Gee
“Mom.” I hold her hands. “Is there any truth at all to what Jebson said about the government owning the bridge?”
Mom looks stressed. “No,” she states firmly. There’s a certainty to her voice that’s not been there before.
“Mom, do you remember a man coming to visit a little while ago? The bus was here and you and Aunt Penny were busy in the shop. You told Aunt Penny you’d handle it and went outside to greet him.” She screws up her face. “Aunt Penny thinks the man was from the Ministry, and you spoke to him. Do you remember what you might have told him?”
Her brow furrows and I fear she’s drifting again. I tighten my grip on her hands hoping to help her hold on.
“No,” she says, her voice shredding. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” She shakes her head, distressed. Just like every other time I’ve asked her, she doesn’t remember this. She has not the slightest recollection of it happening, which is troublesome. For all we know, Jebson could be right. She could have signed away ownership of the bridge to the Ministry. But what about those papers I found in Dad’s things, wouldn’t that agreement still hold. And then there’s the planners’ site map Aunt Penny showed me. The parcels around the footings of the bridge were severed in our favor there, year's back.
Mom scowls.
“Mom,” I move in closer, squeezing her hands again. “Do you remember anything about that?" When she looks at me blankly, I move on to, "Is there any special place where you keep important papers? Some special box, or something, you and Dad might have had, where we might find the deed?”
Worry lines etch across her face. She thinks long and hard before answering that one. “Penny?” She turns, her eyes pleading for her to help fill in the gap she's experiencing.
“Didn’t you and Daniel have a safe deposit box over at the bank at one time?” Aunt Penny suggests.
“A safety deposit box? They have one of those?”
“I just thought of it,” Aunt Penny says. “Your father took one out when they were first married.”
Mother’s eyes light up. She turns back to me. “Yes. Yes, I believe we did at one time. A long time ago.”
“Do you think we can get into it, Mom?” I look at her squarely.
“I know we can.” She drums her fingers on the table. “I’ll go get the key.”
Chapter 52
Vera Williams sits slump-shouldered at her favorite post behind the old Victorian railing alongside the reception desk at the bank where her husband is in charge. She doesn't work here, but she thinks she does. Or least, she likes to keep watch. During her time out of the newspaper office, she oversees the town’s registry, which is also housed conveniently inside the bank.
Small towns, you gotta love ’em.
Lately, she splits her time between here and the newspaper, as things at the newspaper have slowed down. Monday’s and Friday’s, she’s here, the rest of the week she’s at the journal. She’s always treated this job like her second power, though this one that doesn’t come with much power, only self-perceived. Her back snaps straight when she sees Mom enter, even straighter when she notices I’m with Mom. The rest of our entourage trails closely behind: Trent, Trudy, Aunt Penny.
Vera’s eyes flash. She scrambles to a stand, appearing, oddly, incredibly nervous.
Gosh only knows why.
She leaves a half-eaten ham sandwich at her desk and rushes to greet us. “Well, hello there.” Her eyelashes bat. “How can we help you fine folks, today?"
“You can’t, but your husband can,” I tell her flat and push her out of the way.
It’s clear we’re not here for her, but still, she’s here, looking antsy—instead of her usual just nosey. My spidey senses elevate.
“Mr. Williams, please,” I say to her husband’s secretary. “Tell him Miss and Mrs. Lane are here to see him.” Vera steps in front of me. “Maybe I can help.”
“Why would you ever do that?” I snap.
Mr. William’s appears in his office doorway looking like a startled chicken. His eyes land on us, then his wife.
“We’d like to get into my Mother’s safety deposit box. Can you please take us there?”
His gaze flashes to Vera and back. Something's up. “I’ll have someone accompany you,” she offers.
“No. We’d like him to, thank you.” I back her down with my eyes.
She scuttles away like a frightened mouse, returning moments later with a ring of keys and hands them to her husband.
“Not a problem,” he stammers and signals us to follow him, glancing nervously back over his should at Vera as we walk. “You have your key?” He looks to Mom.
“I do.” I hold it up.
Bertram clears his throat. “This way.” He pushes open a large metal door at the back of the main room, which leads to a small dark hallway. He extends his hand inviting us through.
Trent has to duck when we pass through the opening the ceiling on the other side is so low.
Mr. William’s lurches along awkwardly in front of us, stopping at an official-looking filing cabinet at the end of the hall. He opens it, extracting the second ring of keys, then glances around warily at Vera who's inadvertently followed us in.
I turn to her. “You don’t need to be here.” I turn back to him. “She doesn’t need to be here.”
“Vera.” Bertram flicks his fingers for her to leave and she starts to squabble, but he taps his hand and shoos her off. Begrudgingly, she leaves.
I wait until she is gone, before addressing him again. “Where were we?”
“Right this way.” He turns, leading us down another dimly lit corridor to another set of steel doors, where he stuffs a key into a lock, turns it, and pulls back the doors.
It looks like the door to a safe only it takes up the entire wall. With a nod, he welcomes us into the room. The whole place smells like old pencil shavings. There is only a single bare bulb for light.
“They’re all in here.” He points into the back of the musty-smelling cavern, where rows of tin boxes sit in lines, stacked on top of wooden racks like shelves. They extend from the roof to the floor.
“Seriously?” Trent turns to Bertram. “This, is it? This is where you keep all the townspeople’s most valuable possessions, in this little craphole in the back of your bank?” He walks over and rattles the weak-looking gate covering the flimsy wooden back door of the bank. “That leads to where?” he asks.
“The back parking lot?” Bertram says.
“And this?” Trent’s eyes float over Bertram’s head to an old-fashioned pegboard hanging on the opposite wall, containing a list of the number of security boxes and their subsequent name holders. Every person who owns a safety deposit box in Heartland Cove is accounted for on that list. “What the hey, is this?” He plucks the peg board from the board and wheels it across the room. “This is not secure! Anybody could walk in here and have access to these boxes!”
Aunt Penny runs her hands over the front of them.
“Yes, but—” Bert defends himself.
“But what?” Trent glares, just daring him to try to explain himself.
“They wouldn’t have a key to open a security box.”
“Because it’s so hard to break into these.” Trent yanks the flimsy lock nearly off a box. “You could pick these with a hair pin, or pick one up and steal it for that matter.” He removes a box from the shelf. “Rather an archaic setup, don’t you think?” He shakes the box and stares hard into Bertram Williams’ eyes.
“This has got to be illegal,” Trudy says. She plucks Mom's name out of the board.
“Please don’t do that,” Bertram stammers. "That took forever to assemble.”
“He’s right.” I take out my phone and open my camera. “Don't destroy the evidence before I get a picture." I click shots of the board, the ridiculous wall of boxes, and the one Trent is holding.
Bert swallows and pushes past us in search of Mom’s box, his cheeks flushing red as he gets closer. He plucks it from the wall and then
steps aside, back toward the door as if to leave. Trent steps in front of him, blocking his escape from the room.
I take out the key, open the box, and begin rifling through the contents, verbally announcing each item as I go. “An old savings bond certificate, a couple of old expired parking tickets, letters from Dad’s mother—”
“Let me see those.” Mom snags them.
“A copy of their marriage certificate, and a wedding ring?”
“Oh. My wedding ring…” Mom snatches that too, smiling. “I’d wondered where that went.” She slides it on her finger and holds out her hand. “It’s been years since I’ve seen this.” She admires it.
It occurs to me that I’ve never seen her wear it either, not since Dad died. I guess I just assumed she gave that up when Dad died.
“Mom, when’s the last time you’ve been inside this box?” I turn to her.
She looks up from the diamond. “You know, I don’t rightly remember.”
“But not recently, correct?”
She looks confused.
“You haven’t been in here since I left for New York four years ago.”
“Oh, land sakes, no. It’s been longer than that.” She looks back at Aunt Penny to confirm.
“Not since I’ve been helping run the store,” Aunt Penny says. “Or I would have remembered the bloody thing sooner.” She stands behind my shoulder. “That’s been at least twenty years.” She whispers in my ear.
“Interesting,” I say, still digging around inside the box. “Because some of these papers look newer than that.” I grab one out of the very bottom of the box and hold it out for everyone to see. It's some sort of legal papers, an agreement between the Government of Canada and the rightful owner of Heartbeat Bridge, I see when I open them up. Shocked, I read the words allowed to the rest. The document has been folded inside out to hide the details, and there is no envelope with it; although,
every other important piece of paper in the box has an envelope. And this document is much whiter than all the rest of the contents.
"If Mom hasn't been here in twenty years, wouldn’t this document be as yellow as the rest?” I hold two up to compare. "At the very least, it should be starting to discolor, right?" I look to the rest.
Mr. Williams swallows audibly.
“You don’t know anything about this, do you?” I turn to him, noting his nervous look.
When he doesn’t answer, I dig again, finding a second, very-yellowed document tucked inside the first. I scan its contents and gulp myself. “Mom?” I turn to face her. “When did you applied for heritage status on the bridge?”
She thinks for a moment, struggles then scowls. “I didn’t.”
My heart thumps.
“Your father did,” she adds quickly.
“He did?” You’d think I’d have known about this. This could help! Surely the government can’t demolish a structure they’ve deemed of historical value. “Did you receive formal documentation about it? Any kind of official papers awarding the bridge its heritage status?” Mom’s lips quiver, then slightly part—her look of, ‘I don’t remember.’ I look down, reading the fine print on the papers in my hand, then look back up at her. “It says here there should have been a plaque to commemorate it?”
“And a ceremony,” Aunt Penny reads over my shoulder.
“And some money.” We both look up.
“No,” Mom shakes her head. “There was never any plaque.” She stares at the wall as if trying to remember.
“Then what’s all this?” I hold up the papers and stare at Trent.
“Bullocks! That’s what all of that is.” He takes the document from me and studies the fine print himself.
“And I bet I know where that stuff is.” Aunt Penny purses her lips.
“Where?” I say.
“Where do you think?” She raises a brow. “Who do you think might have it?”
Trent turns to me.
“We kept getting turned down,” she says, away in a daze, recounting what had happened. “The province kept saying the bridge wasn’t a building because it wasn’t fully covered. Therefore, it didn’t fall under the Heritage Act. But your father just wouldn’t give up. He argued that the heritage act said ‘any structure of particular historical value, not just a fully enclosed building,’ so the covered bridge should count.”
“So, he did apply for this?” Trent lets out a breath.
“Of, course, he did. I remember it well.” Mother’s mouth grimaces. “Several times, in fact. They kept turning him down and turning him down, until one day I woke to the sound of Jake Jefferies up on the roof of the bridge nailing something to its side in the middle. Remember that, Penny?”
Aunt Penny shakes her head.
Mom scowls then brightens. “Well, I do. I ran out in my housecoat concerned about vandalism, just as his car was pulling away. He saw me out the corner of his eye and stopped, and rolled down the window. When I asked him what he was up to, he donned a cheerful grin and said, ‘Happy news for all of us today! The bridge has finally been designated a heritage monument. Your husband’s somewhere up there smiling away.’ Then he nodded toward the sky and drove off in his car. I never thought much more about it.”
I look to Aunt Penny who looks to me. “So, he nailed the plaque to the bridge.”
“Most likely,” Mom says. “It was way out in the middle. I never checked.”
“On the part that got ripped down yesterday. How long ago was this, Mom?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She rolls her hands together. “Just before I had to give the house up to Trent, I think.”
“That recent?”
“Oh, no. Maybe before that.” She taps her chin.
“Is says right here,”—Trent grabs the papers away from me— “that a plaque was to be erected on the bridge and the grants monies awarded to the owners, in a formal ceremony conducted by the Mayor, upon receipt of this designation.
"When?" Aunt Penny asks.
"Four years ago." He lifts his eyes to Mom.
She swallows, unable to speak.
“Mom, did Mr. Jefferies give you any money that day?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “If he had, I would have remembered that!” She points a finger.
Trent, Aunt Penny, and I exchange frazzled looks. “So, we’ve got fraud going on here, along with a land grab.”
“On a designated heritage property,” I say.
I snatch back the document, checking the signature on the bottom. The name of the recipient who accepted the grant on behalf of my deceased father is…
Trent reads the name over my shoulder. “That rotten, son of—”
“Mom,” I say, breathlessly, “Have you ever seen these papers before?” I turn them in her direction.
She squints then shakes her head. “No,” she says.
“Look at this.” Trent points to the paper. “The grant monies came to a whopping one hundred and seventy-five thousand in trust for the bridge’s care to go toward future upkeep.”
The document is signed and the grant cashed by Mr. Jacob Ernest Jefferies.
Aunt Penny gasps when she reads the name.
“Mom, you’re sure you’ve never seen these papers.” I show her again.
“I’ve never seen them,” Aunt Penny pipes up. “And that’s what’s important. Because I’m the one who does the books!”
“Good enough for me,” Trent says.
Bertram Williams tries to exit the tiny room, and Trent hauls him back.
“Something wrong?” I ask, turning on Bertram. His expression tightens. He lets out a strangled puff of air. “How do you explain this document getting into my Mom's personal safe deposit box?” I shake the papers in front of his face. “Would you rather we go straight to the police?” I add when he doesn’t answer.
My voice is loud. Too loud for the main room.
Mr. Williams shows us to his private office. Vera bursts from her seat when we pass by in a parade on our way to his door. She rat
tles off a string of excuses before she even knows what’s happening.
“Out!” Bertram orders her.
“But?”
“You heard me. Out!” He shouts for her to leave and close the door.
“But Bertram, you need me here, remember?” Her eyes flash as if giving him the signal.
“No, actually, I think you’ve done quite enough already!”
Mr. Williams lowers his head for her to exit the room. She reluctantly follows his request. When his eyes again land on me, his cheeks are poppy red. “You have to understand.” His lips are trembling. “They had me over a barrel.” The muscles at the sides of his jaws twitch.
“Who had you?”
“Who do you think? Please, sit down,” he says. “What I’m about to tell you is hard to hear.”
“So, you see,” he finishes, “Jacob Jefferies is a powerful man. He’s ruined a good many of us during his reign here in this town. Myself and your father included. My wife didn’t know what she was doing. She was just helping me. She knows I’m no match for him. When he came in with the threat, she lost her mind and handed over the keys.” He clasps his sweating hands together, then wipes them off on his pants. “I’ve long surmised that’s why your father made the move he did. Under the pressure of that man. I can’t lie, I’ve had thoughts of it myself.”
“You’ve been in debt to him your whole life,” I say.
“That’s right. Until the moment Vera let him into your mother’s safety deposit box.” He turns, grasping the back of his chair to steady himself.
“And then he wiped your debt.”
He nods. “Stupid woman. I couldn’t reverse the move once it had happened.” He can barely look at me. “After that all I could do was try to lessen the blow. That’s why I fought so hard to get Trent your mother’s home.”