Chapter 4 - THE SIGNATUREFor fifteen seconds, I said nothing.
Then I asked, “What paperwork?”
Daniel Grant—no relation to Tyler’s family—had been my attorney since I purchased Bellafonte.
He did not scare easily.
His tone scared me now.
“A memorandum of purchase agreement was recorded three weeks ago.”
“With the county?”
“Yes.”
“Under my name?”
“Yes.”
“I never signed a purchase agreement.”
“I know.”
I stood in my office staring through the window at rows of vines glowing under the California sun.
Outside, Aunt Rebecca and Grandma were eating breakfast.
Somewhere in San Francisco, my sister was preparing to marry into a family that apparently possessed a contract bearing my signature.
“Send it.”
“It’s already in your inbox.”
I opened the document.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Eleanor M. Pierce.
The signature looked enough like mine to fool someone who had seen it twice.
But it wasn’t mine.
The sale price was $3.2 million.
Almost a million below market value.
The purchaser was Westbrook Leisure Holdings.
Closing date: September 2.
My hands went cold.
“Daniel, how did this get recorded?”
“That’s what I’m finding out.”
“Wouldn’t they need the original contract?”
“The memorandum references one.”
“And?”
“I haven’t seen it.”
I scanned the document.
Then froze.
The notary acknowledgment listed a woman named Patricia Pierce.
My mother.
“Daniel.”
“I saw it.”
I stared at the screen.
“No.”
“I’m not saying she knowingly participated.”
“My mother is listed as the witness.”
“And notary.”
“She isn’t a notary.”
“She was.”
Years earlier, Mom had worked briefly in real estate administration.
She had maintained a commission for several years.
I hadn’t thought about it since.
“Is her commission even active?”
“I’m checking.”
My stomach turned.
I walked outside.
Mom had returned to San Francisco with Savannah.
Dad too.
Only Grandma and our relatives remained.
Grandma saw my face.
“What happened?”
I handed her the phone.
She read the document.
Then removed her glasses.
“Call your mother.”
“I want to know more first.”
“Why?”
“Because if I call angry, she’ll deny everything.”
Grandma nodded.
“So you’re finally learning.”
I looked at her.
“Learning what?”
“To stop showing people your cards before you know theirs.”
Daniel called again twenty minutes later.
Patricia’s notary commission had expired fourteen months earlier.
The acknowledgment date on my supposed sale contract was six weeks ago.
Fraud.
No ambiguity.
“We can file emergency action to cloud the transaction and prevent closing,” Daniel said. “They won’t get title while this is disputed.”
“Do it.”
“I also recommend law enforcement.”
“Not yet.”
“Eleanor.”
“I’m not saying never. Give me a few hours.”
His silence conveyed disapproval.
But Daniel knew me.
“Don’t do anything reckless.”
“I won’t.”
I hung up.
Then I called Mom.
She answered immediately.
“Eleanor, thank God. Savannah is crying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You need to fix this.”
“I have a question.”
“What?”
“Are you still a notary?”
Silence.
Half a second.
Barely noticeable.
But enough.
“No. Why?”
“When did your commission expire?”
“I don’t know. Last year maybe.”
“Have you notarized anything recently?”
Another pause.
“What is this about?”
“Just answer.”
Her voice hardened.
“I don’t appreciate being interrogated.”
That was answer enough.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Did you sign paperwork involving Bellafonte Vineyard?”
Silence.
This time it lasted longer.
Then she whispered, “Who told you?”
I closed my eyes.
“Jesus.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“That sentence has never once preceded good news.”
“Your father said it was routine.”
I gripped the edge of my desk.
“What did you sign?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“You notarized my signature on a property-sale document.”
“We thought you’d already agreed.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Your father said Henry had discussed it with you.”
“He lied.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You notarized a document using an expired commission.”
“I didn’t realize it had expired.”
“Did you watch me sign it?”
“No.”
“Then you knew you were falsely notarizing it.”
She began crying.
I felt almost nothing.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
“Who gave you the paperwork?”
“Your father.”
“Where did he get my signature?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“I swear.”
“Did Savannah know?”
“No.”
A little too fast.
“Did she?”
“I don’t know what Tyler told her.”
That was not no.
I ended the call.
Grandma was standing in the doorway.
“You heard?”
“Enough.”
For the next two hours, Daniel’s office unraveled the paper trail.
Westbrook had submitted the memorandum through a title company.
The title company had relied on a signed purchase contract.
Daniel obtained a copy.
The fake contract carried my forged signature.
My mother’s invalid notarization.
And one more thing.
An email authorization supposedly sent from my business account confirming the terms.
Except the email address wasn’t mine.
It was one letter different.
bellafontevineyard.com versus bellafonte-vineyards.com.
Someone had registered a lookalike domain.
Someone had spent months constructing the appearance of a legitimate transaction.
This wasn’t careless.
It was designed.
At 1:40 p.m., my father called.
I answered.
“You upset your mother.”
“She admitted what she did.”
Dad became silent.
“Eleanor, listen to me.”
“You forged my signature.”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“This was a misunderstanding.”
“Stop.”
“I was trying to help you.”
I actually laughed.
“By selling my property?”
“Henry offered you an excellent price.”
“Seven hundred thousand below valuation.”
“You paid less when you bought it.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“You’ve been running a vineyard alone. We assumed you would eventually want out.”
“No. You wanted the deal.”
“I wanted everyone to benefit.”
There it was.
Everyone.
The sacred Pierce family word for whatever my father wanted.
“What did you get?” I asked.
“What?”
“From Henry.”
“Nothing.”
“Dad.”
“No money.”
“What did he promise you?”
Silence.
I suddenly remembered Henry and Dad drinking together at the hotel.
Tyler’s family needed Bellafonte.
Dad had access to my personal information.
My mother could notarize documents.
“What did he promise?”
Dad sighed.
“An advisory position.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand annually, plus equity in the resort division.”
Grandma whispered something impolite behind me.
I stared at the wall.
“You tried to steal my vineyard for a job.”
“Don’t say steal.”
“What word would you prefer?”
“You would have been paid.”
“For something I didn’t agree to sell.”
“You’re being emotional.”
I smiled.
There are moments when a person becomes so predictable that their cruelty loses its power.
My father had reached that point.
“Are you at the hotel?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Henry there?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m coming to the wedding.”
His relief came instantly.
“Excellent. Savannah will be thrilled.”
“I doubt that.”
I hung up.
Grandma looked at me.
“You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“To stop the wedding?”
“No.”
That was Savannah’s decision.
Her fiancé might be innocent.
He might not.
I would learn soon enough.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at the forged contract again.
Then at the invitation Savannah had never sent.
“I’m going to give my sister exactly what she wanted.”
Grandma raised an eyebrow.
“A beautiful day?”
“No.”
I closed my laptop.
“A wedding weekend filled with important people.”
May you like
Because several of those important people were investors in a company making claims about property it did not own.
And I thought they deserved to meet the actual owner.
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