Chapter 9 - THE BLUE CABINET
Dad’s workshop smelled exactly the same.
Sawdust.
Machine oil.
Old coffee.
For one moment grief outweighed everything else.
His coat still hung from a hook.
Miles had left the workshop largely untouched because inventory of the tools was complete and no sale had been authorized.
The blue steel cabinet stood against the back wall.
Waist high.
Two drawers above a locked lower door.
I had walked past it hundreds of times.
Never cared.
Now six adults stood around it like it could speak.
The neutral locksmith inspected the brass key.
“No damage.”
He inserted it.
Turned once.
Click.
My heart hammered.
Miles said:
“Camera rolling.”
The lower door opened.
Inside were three document boxes.
A canvas pouch.
A spiral notebook.
No cash.
No diamonds.
No gun.
Paper.
Good.
Miles photographed everything before removal.
Box One:
TAX RECORDS.
Box Two:
ESTATE — EXECUTED.
Box Three:
ADVANCES / LOANS.
Sophronia’s breathing changed.
Her lawyer put one hand lightly on the table.
“Do not say anything.”
Good advice.
Miles opened Box Two.
Inside:
A large sealed envelope.
Third Amendment to Alistair Vale Revocable Trust.
Original.
Blue-ink signatures.
Notary seal.
Witness signatures.
Nine pages.
Then:
Personal Property Memorandum.
Three pages.
Then a letter addressed:
To whichever one of my children is angry first.
That sounded like Dad.
Miles did not read it immediately.
Chain first.
Document numbers.
Photos.
Initials.
Then Box Three.
Promissory notes.
Bank statements.
Advancement acknowledgments.
Some signed by Sophronia.
Some by me.
Some repayment records.
The story was becoming arithmetic.
Then the spiral notebook.
The first page:
CABINET KEY — inside Aurelia’s horse before finish.
Date:
July 2.
Two months after amendment signing.
Why?
Next line:
Sophronia keeps asking where I put papers. Better she cannot “organize” them before Miles sees them.
Sophronia closed her eyes.
No one commented.
Still not full secret.
Then another line:
Tell Dacre nothing until I cool off. He’ll start a war before probate exists.
I almost laughed.
Even dead, Dad knew me.
Miles stopped reading aloud.
“Substantive review happens after copies are made.”
Correct.
The documents went into sealed folders.
No one walked out with originals.
The central contents would be reviewed Monday.
Three days.
I hated procedure.
May you like
Procedure was also the only reason nobody could later say I had planted a page.
So I waited.
