Wednesday morning, I again sat in the waiting room of Grimes and Waterford. This time, however, I didn’t bother to thumb through a magazine. Not only had I read them all during my first visit, but I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the words anyway. Instead, I fumed, envisioning myself in a Perry Mason-esque courtroom scene, slamming my hand on the railing of the witness stand that held Norman Childers and cornering him into confessing he was a fraud and a thief.
Partway through the third version of these events, Mr. Grimes’s door opened, and he ushered out his previous client, motioning me to enter. “I’m glad you could stop by, Jenna. I really hate to have to do this, but it’s best to get it over with as soon as possible.”
“Rip the Band-Aid off quickly, is that it?” I slid past him into the room and sat rigidly in the leather wingback chair.
“I guess you could call it that.” He sighed as he sank into his own chair behind the imposing desk and slid a stack of papers across it.
I held back my anger as I signed the papers, agreeing to pay rent into the trust, knowing no real way around it until I had proof Norman Childers was lying through his perfectly capped teeth. I had no clue where I’d come up with rent money, since my own funds were pitifully low, but the first payment wasn’t for two weeks, which gave me time to find proof of Norman’s fraud. With shaking hands, I reached into my purse and pulled out the keys to the store and slid them across the desk toward the attorney. Only my mother’s voice in my head had kept me from making an extra key on the way over.
Mr. Grimes picked up the keys and held them out, offering them to me. “About ten minutes ago, I spoke with Mr. Childers concerning the store. He feels it’ll serve no purpose to close it indefinitely, so he’s agreed to allow you to keep the keys and continue to organize and run the business until further notice.”
“He’ll allow me?” I struggled not to scream like a banshee. “This guy has a lot of nerve. First he doesn’t trust me to have the keys to my inheritance. Then I have to pay rent on my own home. Now he’ll allow me to run my own business?” My voice had risen to a crescendo. I knew the attorney wasn’t to blame for any of this, but I simply couldn’t stop myself.
“Look on the bright side. At least you won’t lose customers because the doors are closed.” A hopeful smile followed the soothe-the-crazy-lady-ranting-in-my-office tone he used.
“No.” I jumped to my feet and placed my palms on the desk, leaning toward the attorney. “We’ll lose customers because of his loud mouth.” I told the lawyer of Norman’s stated intentions for the bookstore, plopping back into my seat in resignation after my—if I was being honest with myself—temper tantrum.
Mr. Grimes steepled his fingers and sat silent for a moment. “I don’t think the historic area of town is zoned for that. I’ll look into it for you, but I’m pretty sure it has to be a type of business that might have existed around the year 1900. Somehow I doubt an adult peep show, much less an adult video store, would qualify.”
“Unfortunately, the damage will already be done.” I sighed, remembering the scathing looks and irate customers. “Everyone is angry at the proposed change, and if he doesn’t stop, no one will continue to come to the store, because every business and upstanding citizen in town will boycott us.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said the lawyer evenly.
I tried to control my anger at Norman Childers as I finally asked the question that had been running circles in my brain for the last twenty-four hours. “Mr. Grimes, what exactly does Norman Childers have that started all of this?”
The attorney cleared his throat. “He has an affidavit from his mother, who recently passed away, and love letters from Paul to his mother dated back to the time of Norman’s conception.”
I clenched my fists. “Supposed conception, please.”
“Very well, supposed conception.” Mr. Grimes looked at me and blinked. “Jenna, I’m very sure the man was indeed conceived at the time he claims. The question is not whether or when he was conceived, but rather who was involved in the conceiving process.”
I relaxed and chuckled sheepishly. “You’re right.” I sobered. “I don’t like to see Uncle Paul’s and Aunt Irene’s names dragged through the mud. If he’s actually Uncle Paul’s son, why did he wait this long to come forward? Why not while Uncle Paul was still alive?”
Mr. Grimes consulted the stack of papers in front of him. “It seems Norman’s mother never told him his father’s identity. He found the signed affidavit among her papers after her death. She left it along with a letter telling him she wanted him to be able to find his father if he so chose. I have a copy of that letter here also.” He selected a piece of paper from the stack on his desk and offered it to me.
I quickly scanned the letter then read it again while the lawyer waited patiently. “This doesn’t say anything about the identity of Norman’s father. It only says he should read the papers included with it and do what he thought was right.”
“It was found with the affidavit stating that Paul Warren Baxter of North Carolina was her son’s father.” Mr. Grimes produced another piece of paper for me to read.
I resisted the urge to reduce the paper to confetti. The lawyer probably didn’t have the original anyway. If I shredded this copy, Norman would simply supply another.
“This doesn’t say much either. Only Uncle Paul’s name and what state he lived in.” I looked at the paper once more, stopping at the notarized date. “I just realized something. Uncle Paul and Aunt Irene moved to North Carolina when I was nine. I remember they lived in Arizona before that. Mom made a big deal over them living closer to us and not having to drive so far to come see us. The date on this affidavit is from several years before they lived here. How can that be possible if it’s legitimate?”
Mr. Grimes took the paper from my outstretched hand and scanned it. “I can’t believe I missed this. It could help you out a lot in court. I’ll get my investigators on it immediately.”
“Good.” It was about time we found something to fight with. Though not the type to revel in the downfall of another person, I couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. “This’ll help poke a few holes in Norman’s story.”
“We still have Paul’s letters to Norman’s mother.” The lawyer laid a few pages on the desk in front of me.
I skimmed them and noticed the glaring problem instantly. “These letters are typed. Only the signatures are handwritten. And they could have been forged.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. “We have handwriting experts looking at them now. On the surface, the signatures look genuine, but we aren’t taking any chances. I’ve also filed the papers for the DNA test, but as I said before, it will be several weeks to get through the court system.”
“At least you aren’t swallowing all of this garbage hook, line, and sinker.” I sat back with a frustrated huff. I closed my eyes and tried to relax my rock-hard shoulders, glad to have Horace Grimes on my side.
“No. We’re taking every precaution to ensure the validity of these documents.”
I changed the subject. “So, how did Norman supposedly track down his long-lost father after all these years?”
Mr. Grimes pulled another page out of the pile. “It seems, upon finding these papers among his mother’s effects, Norman hired a private detective to locate your uncle, his supposed father. It took a bit over a week to finish the job, and by that time your uncle had already died. So Norman came to claim his ‘rightful inheritance’ from the interloper—specifically, you.”
“Interloper?” My eyebrows shot up. “He actually called me an interloper? On what grounds?”
“He claimed you and your family knew about him and you accepted the inheritance without disclosing the fact of his birth.” Mr. Grimes looked uncomfortable.
“Do you really believe that?” My back was ramrod straight, shoulders in tight knots again, and I bored into the attorney’s eyes with my gaze.
“No. Of course not.” His gaze remained steady. “We simply have no proof yet of its invalidity.”
“Yet is the operative word here.” I placed my palms on his desk and rose. “But we will, Mr. Grimes. You can bet your bottom dollar on that one.”
I’d spent most of the morning with Horace Grimes and came away more angry and confused than when I’d gone in. Throwing away the wrapper of the cardboard-flavored hamburger I’d just choked down at a small diner near the attorney’s office, I stomped out to my car. It was too late to get the first morning traffic into my store, and since afternoons were usually pretty slow anyway, or they had been this last week, I decided to leave the store closed for the day. At the very least, it would keep Norman from using it as his base of operations.
Instead I walked up and down the historic downtown sidewalks, visiting with my new neighbors in business. A little PR wouldn’t hurt. As I had already covered my bases with the Hokes sisters, I began elsewhere, starting up one side of the street and stopping in each store to introduce myself. I hoped to build up the bookstore’s reputation and my own against the damage Norman Childers had inflicted. In each store, I first encountered slight hostility, especially with those who had seen the initial news report of my possible involvement in Uncle Paul’s death. However, hostility turned to indignation when I explained the current business situation. All seemed to be supportive of my efforts and gave well wishes in my quest to stop Norman from gaining control of the store.
“He came in here,” said one irate storekeeper, “running off my paying customers and wanting to know if he could leave discount coupons for his adult video store on our counter. I told him to get out and not come back.”
I apologized profusely for the umpteenth time and promised to do my best to keep him away in the future. Continuing my mission, I entered store after store, only to hear similar remarks. By the time I had visited every business on the street, my feet and back ached from wearing shoes that were cute, yes, but not suited to walking so far. Sensing I had put things as right as they could be under the circumstances and hoping I had gained the support of my neighbors, I headed back to the apartment, tired but more relaxed than I’d been since Norman Childers had steamrolled his way into town two days ago.
Realizing it was time to call Mom and Dad, I pulled out my phone and called them as I walked through my front door.
“Hello?” Joe Quinn’s warm voice answered the telephone.
“Dad.” I breathed a sigh of relief, happy to hear a familiar voice.
“Wait. Let me get your mom on the other line. Rose? It’s Jenna.”
His fatherly concern wrapped warmly around my heart as I unburdened myself on my parents.