Chapter 7 - The Monday Morning Docket
The Portage County Administration Building smelled of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and centuries of bureaucratic indifference.
Arden, Carys, and I walked through the double glass doors at twenty minutes to eight. I wore my dark wool coat, the one I kept for funerals and bank visits, my hip throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that reminded me with every step of the dining room floor at the Voss residence. Beside me walked Martha Albright, an attorney whose father had traded engine rebuilds with Thomas back when Ravenna was still a manufacturing town. Martha was seventy, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a scuffed leather briefcase that looked heavy enough to sink a boat.
“Wallace’s courier will likely be here right at eight,” Martha said quietly as we took seats on the wooden bench outside the County Recorder’s office. “Wallace doesn't like waiting in line himself, but if he knows Arden changed the locks over the weekend, he won’t trust a runner. He’ll want to see the stamp go down with his own eyes.”
She was right.
At precisely five minutes to eight, the elevator bell chimed at the end of the hall. The brass doors parted, and Wallace Voss stepped out, flanked by Grant.
Wallace wore a tailored camel-hair overcoat and carried a slim leather portfolio under his arm. His silver hair was brushed back with immaculate precision, but the skin around his eyes was tight, grayed with sleepless tension. Grant followed half a step behind his father, dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, clutching a paper coffee cup with fingers that drummed nervously against the cardboard sleeve.
When Grant spotted Arden sitting on the bench, he stopped dead in his tracks. His face flushed a dark, angry crimson.
“What the hell is this?” Grant hissed, taking two long strides toward us before Wallace caught his son’s forearm with a vice-like grip.
“Stand down, Grant,” Wallace said smoothly, though his cold blue eyes locked immediately onto mine. He looked down his nose at me, his gaze sweeping over my worn leather boots and Martha’s beat-up briefcase. “Leona. I see you’ve managed to drag yourself out of bed. I assumed you’d still be nursing that clumsy fall.”
“My hip’s mending fine, Wallace,” I said, rising slowly from the bench without touching the armrest for support. “Though I noticed your manners haven't improved since Thursday.”
Grant stepped around his father, pointing a finger in Arden’s face. “You changed the deadbolts, Arden. I had to stay at a hotel on the strip last night. My clothes are in that closet. My car is in the garage. You have no legal authority to lock me out of my own residence!”
“The deed is in my name alone, Grant,” Arden said, her voice eerily calm. She didn’t flinch. She didn't look down at the floor the way she had on Thanksgiving. “The mortgage was underwritten based on my credit and my mother’s gift down payment. You couldn't qualify because of the judgment against you from that failed sports lounge in Akron. You aren't on the title. You’re a tenant. And as of midnight, you’ve been served with an emergency eviction and restraining order.”
Grant let out a harsh, barking laugh, glancing at his father. “Did you hear this? She thinks an auto mechanic and a country lawyer can kick me out of Whispering Oaks!”
“Let them bluster, son,” Wallace said, tapping his leather portfolio against his thigh. “The clerk opens in two minutes. Once this lien is entered into the public ledger, the outstanding default notice goes into effect. By noon, the sheriff’s department will be executing an immediate possession order for non-payment on the underlying private note. You can pack your little suitcase, Arden, or you can sleep in the shop with your mother’s grease rags.”
“Go ahead and open the file, Wallace,” Martha Albright spoke up, her voice dry as tinder. “We’d like to be present when you hand that instrument to the deputy clerk.”
May you like
Wallace sneered, turning his back on us as the heavy wooden door of the recorder’s office clicked open from within. “Watch and learn, ladies. The law doesn't care about your feelings. It cares about ink.”
***
