The name written on the line below Arthur’s shaky script was Richard’s. He had signed it as the bank’s primary officer, his bold, sweeping handwriting filling the space.
Daniel looked up from the book, his eyes fixing on the concrete wall across from us. “My father was eighty-one years old in 1971, and he could barely hold a pen.”
“But Richard was just the assistant manager then,” I said, my hand going to my skirt again. “He didn’t have the authority to approve land transfers without the board.”
“He had enough authority to take it,” Daniel said.
We left the courthouse twenty minutes later. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of burning leaves from the edge of town, but my hands felt cold as I gripped the steering wheel of my car.
I drove down the ridge to Clara’s house on Elm Street. Her yard was immaculate, the grass cut short and the flowerbeds lined with clean dark mulch.
Clara was in the backyard, wearing her yellow canvas gardening gloves and holding a pair of long pruning shears. A blue plastic bucket sat at her feet, filled with dead hydrangea blossoms.
