A Company With No Office
Chapter 03 - A Company With No Office
Harrison stood in my doorway long enough for the hallway motion light to switch off. The darkness made him look like a boy again, but his voice belonged to a man who'd rehearsed his answer.
"It's a property management company."
"What property have they managed?"
"The house. Maintenance. General improvements."
"Eighty thousand dollars' worth?"
He swallowed. "Mom, you're not seeing the whole picture."
"Then show it to me."
Instead he said I was tired, upset about the cake, and vulnerable to misunderstanding bank statements. He suggested putting the matter aside until I was calmer. I told him to leave. When he did, I locked my door, something I had never done against my own child.
The next morning I called my old friend and former colleague, June Whitaker. June had lost patience with Harrison years before I did, and was careful not to say I told you so when I explained the account.
"Come with me to the bank," I asked.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
At the branch, a patient manager helped me document the transfers and request records. The bank placed safeguards on the account while examining which instructions were authorized. She advised me to protect my login credentials and obtain independent legal advice. I did both.
The records were incomplete, but they showed an address for Bellweather Property Services in a suburban office park. June drove me there. The listed suite was a mailbox service beside a nail salon. No employees. No reception desk. No evidence of work at my home.
"Some companies use mailboxes legitimately," June cautioned. "But this doesn't explain your money."
I knew she was right. It was important not to pretend suspicion was proof. Daniel had taught me that. He'd worked as an engineer and insisted even the smallest claim needed measurements.
We returned to the car. June held out a napkin she'd used to write dates and amounts. "Start with facts. And call Marian."
Marian Price had handled Daniel's estate. She practiced elder law and estate planning, and she'd sent handwritten Christmas cards every year. She agreed to see me the following morning.
That afternoon, I found a certified-letter notice wedged beneath my front door. It was addressed to me from a medical assessment clinic I'd never visited. Harrison intercepted it as I picked it up.
"I'll deal with that," he said.
I held on. "It's addressed to me."
He released it, but his face tightened.
Inside was a reminder of an upcoming consultation to evaluate my capacity to manage finances. Someone had scheduled the appointment under my name.
May you like
I hadn't requested it.
On the bottom was a contact number for the person who had arranged it: Sloan Mercer.
