Leo Ramirez was waiting on the carriage house steps with a box of doughnuts and the face of a man who expected a medal.
"I bought these with my own money," he said. "Twelve eighty-eight at the Sheetz out on Route 11. I want that in the minutes."
Maeve Higgins wrote it on the back of her hand. "Noted for the record."
The carriage house at the Oakhaven Heritage Gardens had sheltered four horses and a buggy back in 1911, and it still smelled of hay and motor oil no matter how often the board met in it. Leo had propped the south windows open an hour earlier. May in the Shenandoah Valley had gone humid overnight, and the forecast promised thunderstorms by four.
"You're not going to tell me what the plan is," he said.
"No."
"Because I have a whole speech ready about how the trustees from the north end of town already think I'm the kid who let the deer eat the hydrangeas."
"Save it."
"Seriously, Maeve —"
"Find the extension cord. The projector's been dead since March."
He went. She set out nine water glasses and the pitcher of sweet tea that Dorothy Claggett would call too sweet and drink two glasses of anyway.
The trustees arrived at ten of ten. Julian Thorne came in a charcoal suit, shook hands with three people Maeve had known for a decade, and asked after their wives by name. David Chen carried a leather folder the size of a pizza box and set it on the table without opening it. Beatrice Thorne came last, on her nephew's arm, in cream linen and her mother's pearls, and took the chair at the far end — the one with a view of every face in the room.
Sheryl Potts sat in the third row with a notebook and a pen she did not need, because Sheryl never forgot anything. A special session moved to a Thursday told her the board was afraid of something, and Sheryl liked afraid.
At ten o'clock, Maeve called the meeting to order.
David read the agenda. Item one: the sale of five acres of unencumbered land to Thorne Development Group for eight hundred fifty thousand dollars. He read the number slowly, the way a man reads a bedtime story to a child he likes.
"Before we vote," Julian said, standing, "I want to say something to the room." He turned to face the trustees rather than the table. "Nobody here wants to sell a piece of this place. I've been walking these paths since I was six years old, holding my aunt's hand."
Beatrice did not smile. Neither did Maeve.
"The roof on the glasshouse is failing. The endowment is down. This offer fixes the boiler, fixes the roof, and pays Leo's salary for four more years." He opened both hands. "That's the whole ask. Let's circle back to the gardens we all love with a solid balance sheet."
Dorothy Claggett nodded. Bill Rankin wrote something in the margin of his agenda.
"Unless there's new business," David said, "I'd like to call the question."
"There's new business," Maeve said.
"The agenda is set."
"The agenda was set before I finished reviewing the trust documents." She stood and kept both hands on the back of her chair. "Five minutes."
David looked down at the folder. "Ms. Higgins —"
"Five minutes," Bill Rankin said. "Let her talk, David."
"Three things," Maeve said. "First, the deed file at the county archives in Woodstock. I examined it Monday. The original 1924 survey map — the hand-drawn one this trust was built on — is not in that file. In its place is a photocopy generated in March of this year. The clerk has no record of who replaced it, or when."
David's pen stopped moving.
"Second. The chain of title runs from a woman named Elspeth Thorne. Which raises a question this board should want answered before it sells anything. There is a public notice, filed in the county in 1937, for the unclaimed estate of an Elspeth Thorne — a woman who died in a state hospital in Maryland, with no heir who ever came forward to claim what was hers."
Behind her, a chair creaked. At the end of the table, Beatrice Thorne had gone very still, and her eyes had not left Maeve's face since the word Thorne.
"Third. I don't have all of it yet. That's the point." Maeve let the room wait. "I need seven days and a records review before nine people vote away land that a woman named Elspeth Thorne may never have deeded to us at all."
Julian laughed. It was a good laugh, warm and easy, pitched at the room. "That's a story, Maeve."
"It's a filing. It has a date and a case number."
"You're asking this board to sit on eight hundred fifty thousand dollars over historical inconsistencies."
"I'm asking for seven days."
Bill Rankin's pen had stopped moving too.
David closed the folder. "This is a stalling tactic, and I'd advise the board to treat it as one. The title has been clear for a century. If Ms. Higgins has a document, she can produce it."
"I can produce the deed file. I photographed the page."
The room went quiet enough that Maeve could hear a truck downshifting on the highway.
Dorothy Claggett cleared her throat. "David, if there's a question about the title, we would be fools to vote today. I move to table the question for one week."
"Second," Bill Rankin said.
David's jaw worked once. "A motion to table is not debatable. All in favor."
Five hands went up. Four stayed down. Maeve did not vote; the bylaw was older than she was, and the director attended but did not vote.
"One week," Julian said. He smiled at her the way he smiled in the newspaper. "I'll bring the truck."
"For the record, I object." David tucked the folder under his arm. "Ms. Higgins, I'll expect whatever you have on my desk by Wednesday."
"You'll get what the board is entitled to."
The meeting adjourned at twenty of eleven.
Leo caught her in the gravel drive, doughnut box still in his hands. "Five to four. How did you do that?"
"I didn't." Maeve watched the trustees' cars pull out one at a time. "Dorothy and Bill did. And whoever sent me that email last night."
"What email?"
"Not now."
Julian's car went last, and Beatrice's driver brought the town car around after it. Maeve had turned toward her own ten-year-old Subaru Forester when a voice behind her said, "Ms. Higgins."
Beatrice stood in the carriage house doorway with her pocketbook over one arm. She came down the steps without haste and stopped close enough that Maeve could smell lavender water and starch.
"You've been digging in the county records," Beatrice said.
"I've been doing my job."
Beatrice looked at her for a long moment, the way Clara looked at a page she meant to correct. "Whatever inconsistencies you think you've found, Ms. Higgins, are you quite sure you're prepared for where that path ends?"
Comments
Loading the conversation…